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THE WORKS 



OF 



ALFRED LORD TENNYSON 







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11. 



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Copyright, 

By Thomas Y. Crowell & Co. 
1891. 



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Photogravures by A. W. Elson & Co., Boston. 



T. Y. Crowell & Co., Bookbinders, Boston. 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The Princess; a Medley: 

Prologue 7 

Part 1 16 

Part II 27 

Part III 45 

Part IV. . 61 

Part V 82 

Part VI 103 

Part VII 119 

Conclusion 133 

Maud; a Monodrama: 

Part 1 139 

Part II 195 

Part III 212 

Enoch Arden 7i*j 

To E. Fitzgerald . 250 

TiRESiAs 252 

The Wreck 259 

The Ancient Sage 270 

The Flight , . , c e 280 



Kinis^tkif^fCiHii-: r. :;;:•« «yHr.£L:&:&<<w,4£:»tf>'.»r-ybi.«fdtdii<JEi^-^s3&^ 



8 PROLOGUE, 



Of sandal, amber, ancient rosaries, 
Laborious orient ivory sphere in sphere, 
The cursed Malayan crease, and battle-clubs 
From the isles of palm : and higher on the walls, 
Betwixt the monstrous horns of elk and deer. 
His own forefathers' arms and armour hung. 

And " this " he said " was Hugh's at Agincourt ; 
And that was old Sir Ralph's at Ascalon : 
A good knight he ! we keep a chronicle 
With all about him" — which he brought, and I 
Dived in a hoard of tales that dealt with knights, 
Half-legend, half-historic, counts and kings 
Who laid about them at their wills and died ; 
And mixt with these, a lady, one that arm'd 
Her own fair head, and sallying thro' the gate, 
Had beat her foes with slaughter from her walls. 

" O miracle of women," said the book, 
** O noble heart who, being strait-besieged 
By this wild king to force her to his wish. 
Nor bent, nor broke, nor shunn'd a soldier's 

death. 
But now when all was lost or seem'd as lost — 
Her stature more than mortal in the burst 
Of sunrise, her arm lifted, eyes on fire — 
Brake with a blast of trumpets from the gate, 
And, falling on them like a thunderbolt. 
She trampled some beneath her horses' heels. 
And some were whelm'd with missiles of the wall, 
And some were push'd with lances from the rock, 



PROLOGUE. 9 

And part were drownM within the whirling brook : 
O miracle of noble womanhood ! " 

So sang the gallant glorious chronicle ; 
And, I all rapt in this, " Come out," he said, 
" To the Abbey : there is Aunt Elizabeth 
And sister Lilia with the rest." We went 
(I kept the book and had my finger in it) 
Down thro' the park : strange was the sight to me ; 
For all the sloping pasture murmurM, sown 
With happy faces and with holiday. 
There moved the multitude, a thousand heads : 
The patient leaders of their Institute 
Taught them with facts. One rearM a font of stone 
And drew, from butts of water on the slope, 
The fountain of the moment, playing, now 
A twisted snake, and now a rain of pearls. 
Or steep-up spout whereon the gilded ball 
Danced like a wisp : and somewhat lower down 
A man with knobs and wires and vials fired 
A cannon : Echo answerM in her sleep 
From hollow fields : and here were telescopes 
For azure views ; and there a group of girls 
In circle waited, whom the electric shock 
Dislink'd with shrieks and laughter : round the lake 
A little clock-work steamer paddling plied 
And shook the lilies : perch'd about the knolls 
A dozen angry models jetted steam : 
A petty railway ran : a fire-balloon 
Rose gem-like up before the dusky groves 
And dropt a fairy parachute and past : 



10 PROLOGUE. 

And there thro' twenty posts of telegraph 
They flash'd a saucy message to and fro 
Between the mimic stations ; so that sport 
Went hand in hand with Science ; otherwhere 
Pure sport : a herd of boys with clamour bowPd 
And stump'd the wicket ; babies rolPd about 
Like tumbled fruit in grass ; and men and maids 
Arranged a country dance, and flew thro' light 
And shadow, while the twangling violin 
Struck up with Soldier-laddie, and overhead 
The broad ambrosial aisles of lofty lime 
Made noise with bees and breeze from end to end. 

Strange was the sight and smacking of the time ; 
And long we gazed, but satiated at length 
Came to the ruins. High-arch'd and ivy-claspt, 
Of finest Gothic lighter than a fire, 
Thro' one wide chasm of time and frost they gave 
The park, the crowd, the house ; but all within 
The sward was trim as any garden lawn : 
And here we lit on Aunt Elizabeth, 
And Lilia with the rest, and lady friends 
From neighbour seats : and there was Ralph himself, 
A broken statue propt against the wall. 
As gay as any. Lilia, wild with sport, 
Half child half woman as she was, had wound 
A scarf of orange round the stony helm, 
And robed the shoulders in a rosy silk, 
That made the old warrior from his ivied nook 
Glow like a sunbeam : near his tomb a feast 
Shone, silver-set ; about it lay the guests, 



PROLOGUE, 1] 

And there we joined them : then the maiden Aunt 
Took this fair day for text, and from it preach'd 
An universal culture for the crowd, 
And all things great ; but we, unworthier, told 
Of college : he had climb'd across the spikes, 
And he had squeezed himself betwixt the bars, 
And he had breath'd the Proctor^s dogs ; and one 
Discuss'd his tutor, rough to common men. 
But honeying at the whisper of a lord ; 
And one the Master, as a rogue in grain 
Veneer'd with sanctimonious theory. 

But while they talk'd, above their heads I saw 
The feudal warrior lady-clad ; which brought 
My book to mind : and opening this I read 
Of old Sir Ralph a page or two that rang 
With tilt and tourney ; then the tale of her 
That drove her foes with slaughter from her walls, 
And much I praised her nobleness, and " Where," 
AskM Walter, patting Lilia's head (she lay 
Beside him) "lives there such a woman now?" 

Quick answered Lilia " There are thousands now 
Such women, but convention beats them down : 
It is but bringing up ; no more than that : 
You men have done it : how I hate you all ! 
Ah, were I something great ! I wish I were 
Some mighty poetess, I would shame you then, 
That love to keep us children ! O I wish 
That I were some great princess, I would build 
Far off from men a college like a man's, 



12 PROLOGUE. 

And I would teach them all that men are taught ; 
We are twice as quick ! '' And here she shook asic 
The hand that play'd the patron with her curls. 

And one said smiling ^' Pretty were the sight 
If our old halls could change their sex, and flaunt 
With prudes for proctors, dowagers for deans, 
And sweet girl-graduates in their golden hair. 
I think they should not wear our rusty gowns, 
But move as rich as Emperor-moths, or Ralph 
Who shines so in the corner ; yet I fear, 
If there were many Lilias in the brood, 
However deep you might embower the nest, 
Some boy would spy it." 

At this upon the sward 
She tapt her tiny silken-sandaPd foot : 
" That's your light way ; but I would make it death 
For any male thing but to peep at us." 

Petulant she spoke, and at herself she laugh'd ; 
A rosebud set with little wilful thorns, 
And sweet as English air could make her, she : 
But Walter haiPd a score of names upon her, 
And " petty Ogress," and " ungrateful Puss," 
And swore he long'd at college, only long'd, 
All else was well, for she-society. 
They boated and they cricketed ; they talk'd 
At wine, in clubs, of art, of politics ; 
They lost their weeks ; they vext the souls of deans ; 
They rode ; they betted ; made a hundred friends, 
And caught the blossom of the flying terms, 




PROLOGUE, 13 

But miss'd the mignonette of Vivian-place, 
The h'ttle hearth-flower Lilia. Thus he spoke. 
Part banter, part affection. 

" True," she said, 
" We doubt not that. O yes, you miss'd us much, 
ril stake my ruby ring upon it you did." 

She held it out ; and as a parrot turns 
Up thro' gilt wires a crafty loving eye, 
And takes a lady's finger with all care. 
And bites it for true heart and not for harm, 
So he with Lilia's. Daintily she shriek'd 
And wrung it. " Doubt my word again ! " he said. 
" Come, listen ! here is proof that you were miss'd : 
We seven stay'd at Christmas up to read ; 
And there we took one tutor as to read : 
The hard-grain'd Muses of the cube and square 
Were out of season : never man, I think. 
So moulder'd in a sinecure as he : 
For while our cloisters echo'd frosty feet, 
And our long walks were stript as bare as brooms, 
We did but talk you over, pledge you all 
In wassail ; often, like as many girls — 
Sick for the hollies and the yews of home — 
As many little trifling Lilias — play'd 
Charades and riddles as at Christmas here, 
KvidiWhafs my thought and when and where and how^ 
And often told a tale from mouth to mouth 
As here at Christmas." 

She remember'd that : 
A pleasant game, she thought : she liked it more 



14 PROLOGUE, 

Than magic music, forfeits, all the rest. 

But these — what kind of tales did men tell men, 

She wonder'd, by themselves? 

A half-disdain 
Perch'd on the pouted blossom of her lips : 
And Walter nodded at me ; '-'- He began, 
The rest would follow, each in turn ; and so 
We forged a sevenfold story. Kind ? what kind ? 
Chimeras, crotchets, Christmas solecisms, 
Seven-headed monsters only made to kill 
Time by the fire in winter." 

" Kill him now, 
The tyrant ! kill him in the summer too," 
Said Lilia ; "Why not now? " the maiden Aunt. 
" Why not a summer's as a winter's tale? 
A tale for summer as befits the time, 
And something it should be to suit the place. 
Heroic, for a hero lies beneath, 
Grave, solemn ! " 

Walter warp'd his mouth at this 
To something so mock-solemn, that I laugh'd 
And Lilia woke with sudden-shrilling mirth 
An echo like a ghostly woodpecker, 
Hid in the ruins ; till the maiden Aunt 
(A little sense of wrong had touchM her face 
With colour) turn-d to me with " As you will ; 
Heroic if you will, or what you will. 
Or be yourself your hero if you will." 

"Take Lilia, then, for heroine" clamour'd he, 
" And make her some great Princess, six feet high, 



PROLOGUE. 15 

Grand, epic, homicidal ; and be you 
The Prince to win her ! " 

^' Then follow me, the Prince, 
I answer'd, " each be hero in his turn ! 
Seven and yet one, like shadows in a dream. — 
Heroic seems our Princess as required — 
But something made to suit with Time and place, 
A Gothic ruin and a Grecian house, 
A talk of college and of ladies' rights, 
A feudal knight in silken masquerade, 
And, yonder, shrieks and strange experiments 
For which the good Sir Ralph had burnt them all — 
This were a medley ! we should have him back 
Who told the * Winter's tale' to do it for us. 
No matter : we will say whatever comes. 
And let the ladies sing us, if they will. 
From time to time, some ballad or a song 
To give us breathing-space." 

So I began, 
And the rest foUow'd : and the women sang 
Between the rougher voices of the men. 
Like linnets in the pauses of the wind : 
And here I give the story and the songs. 



16 THE PRINCESS; 



PART I. 

A prince I was, blue-eyed, and fair in face, 
Of temper amorous, as the first of May, 
With lengths of yellow ringlet, like a girl. 
For on my cradle shone the Northern star. 

There lived an ancient legend in our house. 
Some sorcerer, whom a far-off grandsire burnt 
Because he cast no shadow, had foretold. 
Dying, that none of all our blood should know 
The shadow from the substance, and that one 
Should come to fight with shadows and to fall. 
For so, my mother said, the story ran. 
And, truly, waking dreams were, more or less, 
An old and strange affection of the house. 
Myself too had weird seizures. Heaven knows 

what: 
On a sudden in the midst of men and day, 
And while I walkM and talk'd as heretofore, 
I seem'd to move among a world of ghosts. 
And feel myself the shadow of a dream. 
Our great court-Galen poised his gilt-head cane. 
And paw'd his beard, and mutter'd *' catalepsy." 
My mother pitying made a thousand prayers ; 
My mother was as mild as any saint, 



A MEDLEY. 17 

Half-canonized by all that look'd on her, 
So gracious was her tact and tenderness : 
But my good father thought a king a king ; 
He cared not for the affection of the house ; 
He held his sceptre like a pedant's wand 
To lash offence, and with long arms and hands 
Reached out, and pick'd offenders from the mass 
For judgment. 

Now it chanced that I had been, 
While life was yet in bud and blade, betrothed 
To one, a neighbouring Princess : she to me 
Was proxy-wedded with a bootless calf 
At eight years old ; and still from time to time 
Came murmurs of her beauty from the South, 
And of her brethren, youths of puissance ; 
And still I wore her picture by my heart, 
And one dark tress ; and all around them both 
Sweet thoughts would swarm as bees about their 
queen. 

But when the days drew nigh that I should 
wed, 
My father sent ambassadors with furs 
And jewels, gifts, to fetch her : these brought back 
A present, a great labour of the loom ; 
And therewithal an answer vague as wind : 
Besides, they saw the king ; he took the gifts ; 
He said there was a compact ; that was true : 
But then she had a will ; was he to blame? 
And maiden fancies ; loved to live alone 
Among her women ; certain, would not wed. 



18 THE PRINCESS; 

That morning in the presence room I stood 
With Cyril and with Florian, my two friends : 
The first, a gentleman of broken means 
(His father's fault) but given to starts and bursts 
Of revel ; and the last, my other heart, 
And almost my half-self, for still we moved 
Together, twinn'd as horse's ear and eye. 

Now, while they spake, I saw my father's face 
Grow long and troubled like a rising moon. 
Inflamed with wrath : he started on his feet, 
Tore the king's letter, snow'd it down, and rent 
The wonder of the loom thro' warp and woof 
From skirt to skirt ; and at the last he sware 
That he would send a hundred thousand men, 
And bring her in a whirlwind : then he chew'd 
The thrice-turn'd cud of wrath, and cook'd his spleen, 
Communing with his captains of the war. 

At last I spoke. " My father, let me go. 
It cannot be but some gross error lies 
In this report, this answer of a king, 
Whom all men rate as kind and hospitable : 
Or, maybe, I myself, my bride once seen, 
Whate'er my grief to find her less than fame. 
May rue the bargain made." And Florian said : 
" I have a sister at the foreign court, 
Who moves about the Princess ; she, you know% 
Who wedded with a nobleman from thence : 
He, dying lately, left her, as I hear, 
The lady of three castles in that land : 



A MEDLEY. 19 

Thro' her this matter might be sifted clean." 
And Cyril whispered : " Take me with you too." 
Then laughing " what, if these weird seizures come 
Upon you in those lands, and no one near 
To point you out the shadow from the truth ! 
Take me : I'll serve you better in a strait ; 
I grate on rusty hinges here : " but " No ! " 
Roar'd the rough king, " you shall not ; we ourself 
Will crush her pretty maiden fancies dead 
In iron gauntlets : break the council up," 

But when the council broke, I rose and past 
Thro' the wild woods that hung about the town ; 
Found a still place, and pluck'd her likeness out ; 
Laid it on flowers, and watch'd it lying bathed 
In the green gleam of dewy-tassell'd trees : 
What were those fancies ? wherefore break her troth ? 
Proud look'd the lips : but while I meditated 
A wind arose and rush'd upon the South, 
And shook the songs, the whispers, and the shrieks 
Of the wild woods together ; and a Voice 
Went with it, " Follow, follow, thou shalt win." 

Then, ere the silver sickle of that month 
Became her golden shield, I stole from court 
With Cyril and with Florian, unperceived. 
Cat-footed thro' the town and half in dread 
To hear my father's clamour at our backs 
With Ho! from some bay-window shake the night; 
But all was quiet : from the bastion'd walls 
Like threaded spiders, one by one, we dropt, 



20 THE PRINCESS; 

And flying reach'd the frontier : then we crost 
To a livelier land ; and so by tilth and grange, 
And vines, and blowing bosks of wilderness, 
We gain'd the mother-city thick with towers, 
And in the imperial palace found the king. 

His name was Gama ; crack'd and small his voice, 
But bland the smile that like a wrinkling wind 
On glassy water drove his cheek in lines ; 
A little dry old man, without a star, 
Not like a king : three days he feasted us. 
And on the fourth I spake of why we came, 
And my betroth'd. *' You do us, Prince," he said, 
Airing a snowy hand and signet gem, 
" All honour. We remember love ourselves 
In our sweet youth : there did a compact pass 
Long summers back, a kind of ceremony — 
I think the year in which our olives faiPd. 
I would you had her, Prince, with all my heart, 
With my full heart : but there were widows here, 
Two widows. Lady Psyche, Lady Blanche ; 
They fed her theories, in and out of place 
Maintaining that with equal husbandry 
The woman were an equal to the man. 
They harpM on this ; with this our banquets rang ; 
Our dances broke and buzzM in knots of talk ; 
Nothing but this ; my very ears were hot 
To hear them : knowledge, so my daughter held. 
Was all in all : they had but been, she thought. 
As children ; they must lose the child, assume 
The woman : then, Sir, awful odes she wrote, 



!i 



^A MEDLEY. 21 

Too awful, sure, for what they treated of, 

But all she is and does is awful ; odes 

About this losing of the child ; and rhymes 

And dismal lyrics, prophesying change 

Beyond all reason : these the women sang ; 

And they that know such things — I sought but 

peace ; 
No critic I — would call them masterpieces : 
They mastered me. At last she beggM a boon, 
A certain summer-palace which I have 
Hard by your father's frontier : I said no, 
Yet being an easy man, gave it : and there, 
All wild to found an University 
For maidens, on the spur she fled ; and more 
We know not, — only this : they see no men. 
Not ev'n her brother Arac, nor the twins 
Her brethren, tho' they love her, look upon her 
As on a kind of paragon ; and I 
(Pardon me saying it)^ were much loth to breed 
Dispute betwixt myself and mine : but since 
(And I confess with right) you think me bound 
In some sort, I can give you letters to her ; 
And yet, to speak the truth, I rate your chance 
Almost at naked nothing." 

Thus the king ; 
And I, tho' nettled that he seem'd to slur 
With garrulous ease and oily courtesies 
Our formal compact, yet, not less (all frets 
But chafing me on fire to find my bride) 
Went forth again with both my friends. We rode 
Many a long league back to the North. At last 



22 THE PRINCESS; 

From hills, that look'd across a land of hope, 
We dropt with evening on a rustic town 
Set in a gleaming river's crescent-curve, 
Close at the boundary of the liberties ; 
There, entered an old hostel, calFd mine host 
To council, plied him with his richest wines. 
And showed the late-writ letters of the king. 

He with a long low sibilation, stared 
As blank as death in marble ; then exclaim-d 
Averring it was clear against all rules 
For any man to go : but as his brain 
Began to mellow, " If the king," he said, 
" Had given us letters^ was he bound to speak? 
The king would bear him out ;" and at the last ^- 
The summer of the vine in all his veins — 
" No doubt that we might make it worth his while. 
She once had past that way ; he heard her speak ; 
She scared him ; life ! he never saw the like ; 
She lookM as grand as doomsday and as grave : 
And he, he reverenced his liege-lady there ; 
He always made a point to post with mares ; 
His daughter and his housemaid were the boys : 
The land, he understood, for miles about 
Was tiird by women ; all the swine were sows. 
And all the dogs " — 

But while he jested thus, 
A thought flashed thro' me which I clothed in act, 
Remembering how we three presented Maid 
Or Nymph, or Goddess, at high tide of feast, 
In masque or pageant at my father's court. 



I 



A MEDLEY. 23 

We sent mine host to purchase female gear ; 
He brought it, and himself, a sight to shake 
The midriff of despair with laughter, holp 
To lace us up, till, each, in maiden plumes 
We rustled : him we gave a costly bribe 
To guerdon silence, mounted our good steeds, 
And boldly ventured on the liberties. 

We followed up the river as we rode, 
And rode till midnight when the college lights 
Began to glitter firefly-like in copse 
And linden alley : then we past an arch, 
Whereon a woman-statue rose with wings 
From four winged horses dark against the stars ; 
And some inscription ran along the front. 
But deep in shadow : further on we gain'd 
A little street half garden and half house ; 
But scarce could hear each other speak for noise 
Of clocks and chimes, like silver hammers falling 
On silver anvils, and the splash and stir 
Of fountains spouted up and showering down 
In meshes of the jasmine and the rose : 
And all about us peaPd the nightingale, 
Rapt in her song, and careless of the snare. 

There stood a bust of Pallas for a sign, 
By two sphere lamps blazon'd like Heaven and 

Earth 
With constellation and with continent, 
Above an entry : riding in, we calPd ; 
A plump-arm'd Ostleress and a stable wench 



24 THE PRINCESS; 



Came running at the call, and help'd us down. 
Then stept a buxom hostess forth, and saiPd, 
Full-blown, before us into rooms which gave 
Upon a pillar'd porch, the bases lost 
In laurel : her we ask'd of that and this, 
And who were tutors. " Lady Blanche " she said, 
" And Lady Psyche." " Which was prettiest, 
Best-natured ? " "Lady Psyche." " Hers are we," 
One voice, we cried ; and I sat down and wrote, 
In such a hand as when a field of corn 
Bows all its ears before the roaring East ; 

" Three ladies of the Northern empire pray 
Your Highness would enroll them with your own, 
As Lady Psyche's pupils." 

This I seaPd : 
The seal was Cupid bent above a scroll, 
And o'er his head Uranian Venus hung. 
And raised the blinding bandage from his eyes : 
I gave the letter to be sent with dawn ; 
And then to bed, where half in doze I seem'd 
To float about a glimmering night, and watch 
A full sea glazed with muffled moonlight, swell 
On some dark shore just seen that it was rich. 




A MEDLEY, 25 



As thro' the land at eve we went, 

And pluck'd the ripen'd ears, 
We fell out, my wife and I, 
O we fell out I know not why, 

And kiss'd again with tears. 
And blessings on the falling out 

That all the more endears, 
When we fall out with those we love 

And kiss again with tears ! 
For when we came where lies the child 

We lost in other years, 
There above the little grave, 
O there above the little grave. 

We kiss'd again with tears. 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 27 



PART II. 

At break of day the College Portress came : 

She brought us Academic silks, in hue 

The lilac, with a silken hood to each, 

And zoned with gold ; and now when these were on, 

And we as rich as moths from dusk cocoons, 

She, curtseying her obeisance, let us know 

The Princess Ida waited : out we paced, 

I first, and following thro' the porch that sang 

All round with laurel, issued in a court 

Compact of lucid marbles, boss'd with lengths 

Of classic frieze, with ample awnings gay 

Betwixt the pillars, and with great urns of flowers. 

The Muses and the Graces, grouped in threes, 

Enring'd a billowing fountain in the midst ; 

And here and there on lattice edges lay 

Or book or lute ; but hastily we past, 

And up a flight of stairs into the hall. 

There at a board by tome and paper sat, 
With two tame leopards couch'd beside her throne 
All beauty compass'd in a female form, 
The Princess ; liker to the inhabitant 
Of some clear planet close upon the Sun, 
Than our man\s earth ; such eyes were in her head, 



28 THE PRINCESS; 

And so much grace and power, breathing down 
From over her archM brows, with every turn 
Lived thro' her to the tips of her long hands, 
And to her feet. She rose her height, and said : 

" We give you welcome : not without redound 
Of use and glory to yourselves ye come, 
The first-fruits of the stranger : aftertime, 
And that full voice which circles round the grave, 
Will rank you nobly, mingled up with me. 
What! are the ladies of your land so tall.^ " 
" We of the court " said Cyril. " From the court " 
She answer'd, " then ye know the Prince ? " and 

he: 
" The climax of his age ! as tho' there were 
One rose in all the world, your Highness that, 
He worships your ideal : " she replied : 
" We scarcely thought in our own hall to hear 
This barren verbiage, current among men, 
Light coin, the tinsel clink of compliment. 
Your flight from out your bookless wilds would seem 
As arguing love of knowledge and of power ; 
Your language proves you still the child. Indeed, 
We dream not of him : when we set our hand 
To this great work, we purposed with ourself 
Never to wed. You likewise will do well, 
Ladies, in entering here, to cast and fling 
The tricks, which make us toys of men, that so, 
Some future time, if so indeed you will, 
You may with those self-styled our lords ally 
Your fortunes, justlier balanced, scale with scale." 



A MEDLEY, 29 

At those high words, we conscious of ourselves, 
Perused the matting ; then an officer 
Rose up, and read the statutes, such as these : 
Not for three years to correspond with home ; 
Not for three years to cross the liberties ; 
Not for three years to speak with any men ; 
And many more, which hastily subscribed, 
We enter'd on the boards : and " Now," she cried, 
" Ye are green wood, see ye warp not. Look, our 

hall! 
Our statues ! — not of those that men desire, 
Sleek Odalisques, or oracles of mode, 
Nor stunted squaws of West or East ; but she 
That taught the Sabine how to rule, and she 
The foundress of the Babylonian wall, 
The Carian Artemisia strong in war, 
The Rhodope, that built the pyramid, 
Clelia, Cornelia, with the Palmyrene 
That fought Aurelian, and the Roman brows 
Of Agrippina. Dwell with these, and lose 
Convention, since to look on noble forms 
Makes noble thro' the sensuous organism 
That which is higher. O lift your natures up : 
Embrace our aims : work out your freedom. Girls, 
Knowledge is now no more a fountain seaPd : 
Drink deep, until the habits of the slave, 
The sins of emptiness, gossip and spite 
And slander, die. Better not be at all 
Than not be noble. Leave us : you may go : 
To-day the Lady Psyche will harangue 
The fresh arrivals of the week before ; 



30 THE PRINCESS; 

For they press in from all the provinces, 
And fill the hive." 

She spoke, and bowing waved 
Dismissal : back again we crost the court 
To Lady Psyche's : as we entered in, 
There sat along the forms, like morning doves 
That sun their milky bosoms on the thatch, 
A patient range of pupils ; she herself 
Erect behind a desk of satin-wood, 
A quick brunette, well-moulded, falcon-eyed, 
And on the hither side, or so she lookM, 
Of twenty summers. At her left, a child, 
In shining draperies, headed like a star, 
Her maiden babe, a double April old, 
Aglaia slept. We sat : the Lady glanced : 
Then Florian, but no livelier than the dame 
That whispered " Asses' ears," among the sedge, 
" My sister." " Comely, too, by all that's fair," 
Said Cyril. " O hush, hush ! " and she began. 

" This world was once a fluid haze of light, 
Till toward the centre set the starry tides. 
And eddied into suns, that wheeling cast 
The planets: then the monster, then the man; 
Tattoo'd or woaded, winter-clad in skins. 
Raw from the prime, and crushing down his mate ; 
As yet we find in barbarous isles, and here 
Among the lowest." 

Thereupon she took 
A bird's-eye-view of all the ungracious past ; 
Glanced at the legendary Amazon 



A MEDLEY. 31 

As emblematic of a nobler age ; 

Appraised the Lycian custom, spoke of those 

That lay at wine with Lar and Lucumo ; 

Ran down the Persian, Grecian, Roman lines 

Of empire, and the woman's state in each, 

How far from just ; till warming with her theme 

She fulmined out her scorn of laws Salique 

And little-footed China, touched on Mahomet 

With much contempt, and came to chivalry : 

When some respect, however slight, was paid 

To woman, superstition all awry: 

However then commenced the dawn : a beam 

Had slanted forward, falling in a land 

Of promise ; fruit would follow. Deep, indeed, 

Their debt of thanks to her who first had dared 

To leap the rotten pales of prejudice, 

Disyoke their necks from custom, and assert 

None lordlier than themselves but that which made 

Woman and man. She had founded; they must 

build. 
Here might they learn whatever men were taught : 
Let them not fear : some said their heads were less : 
Some men's were small ; not they the least of men ; 
For often fineness compensated size : 
Besides the brain was like the hand, and grew 
With using ; thence the man's, if more was more ; 
He took advantage of his strength to be 
First in the field : some ages had been lost ; 
But woman ripen'd earlier, and her life 
Was longer : and albeit their glorious names 
Were fewer, scatter'd stars, yet since in truth 



32 THE PRINCESS; 

The highest is the measure of the man, 

And not the Kaffir, Hottentot, Malay, 

Nor those horn-handed breakers of the glebe, 

But Homer, Plato, Verulam ; even so 

With woman : and in arts of government 

Elizabeth and others ; arts of war 

The peasant Joan and others ; arts of grace 

Sappho and others vied with any man : 

And, last not least, she who had left her place, 

And bow'd her state to them, that they might grow 

To use and power on this Oasis, lapt 

In the arms of leisure, sacred from the blight 

Of ancient influence and scorn. 

At last 
She rose upon a wind of prophecy 
Dilating on the future ; " everywhere 
Two heads in council, two beside the hearth, 
Two in the tangled business of the world, 
Two in the liberal offices of life, 
Two plummets dropt for one to sound the abyss 
Of science, and the secrets of the mind : 
Musician, painter, sculptor, critic, more : 
And everywhere the broad and bounteous Earth 
Should bear a double growth of those rare souls, 
Poets, whose thoughts enrich the blood of the 
world." 

She ended here, and beckon'd us : the rest 
Parted ; and, glowing full-faced welcome, she 
Began to address us, and was moving on 
In gratulation, till as when a boat 



A MEDLEY. 33 

Tacks, and the slackened sail flaps, all her voice 
Faltering and fluttering in her throat, she cried 
*'My brother!" "Well, my sister." " O," she 

said, 
" What do you here ? and in this dress ? and these ?, 
Why who are these ? a wolf within the fold ! 
A pack of wolves ! the Lord be gracious to me ! 
A plot, a plot, a plot, to ruin all ! " 
"No plot, no plot," he answered. "Wretched boy. 
How saw you not the inscription on the gate. 
Let no man enter in on pain of death ? " 
"And if I had," he answer'd, " who could think 
The softer Adams of your Academe, 
O sister. Sirens tho' they be, were such 
As chanted on the blanching bones of men?" 
" But you will find it otherwise " she said. 
" You jest : ill jesting with edge-tools ! my vow 
Binds me to speak, and O that iron will, 
That axelike edge unturnable, our Head, 
The Princess." " Well then, Psyche, take my life, 
And nail me like a weasel on a grange 
For warning : bury me beside the gate, 
And cut this epitaph above my bones ; 
Here lies a brother by a sister slaiit^ 
All for the common good of womankind.'''' 
"Let me die too," said Cyril, "having seen 
And heard the Lady Psyche." 

I struck in : 
"Albeit so mask'd. Madam, I love the truth; 
Receive it ; and in me behold the Prince 
Your countryman, aflianced years ago 



34 THE PRINCESS; 

To the Lady Ida : here, for here she was. 
And thus (what other way was left) I came." 
" O Sir, O Prince, I have no country ; none ; 
If any, this ; but none. Whatever 1 was 
Disrooted, what I am is grafted here. 
Affianced, Sir? love-whispers may not breathe 
Within this vestal limit, and how should I, 
Who am not mine, say, live : the thunderbolt 
Hangs silent ; but prepare : I speak ; it falls." 
'' Yet pause,"' I said : " for that inscription there, 
I think no more of deadly lurks therein, 
Than in a clapper clapping in a garth. 
To scare the fowl from fruit : if more there be. 
If more and acted on, what follows? war; 
Your own work marr'd : for this your Academe, 
Whichever side be Victor, in the halloo 
Will topple to the trumpet down, and pass 
With all fair theories only made to gild 
A stormless summer." " Let the Princess judge 
Of that " she said : " farewell, Sir — and to you. 
I shudder at the sequel, but I go." 

" Are you that Lady Psyche," I rejoin'd, 
*' The fifth in line from that old Florian, 
Yet hangs his portrait in my father's hall 
(The gaunt old Baron with his beetle brow 
Sun-shaded in the heat of dusty fights) 
As he bestrode my Grandsire, when he fell, 
And all else fled ? we point to it, and we say, 
The loyal warmth of Florian is not cold. 
But branches current yet in kindred veins." 



A MEDLEY. 35 

"Are you that Psyche," Florian added ; '* she 
With whom I sang about the morning hills, 
Flung ball, flew kite, and raced the purple fly, 
And snared the squirrel of the glen? are you 
That Psyche, wont to bind my throbbing brow. 
To smoothe my pillow, mix the foaming draught 
Of fever, tell me pleasant tales, and read 
My sickness down to happy dreams ? are you 
That brother-sister Psyche, both in one? 
You were that Psyche, but what are you now ? " 
" You are that Psyche," Cyril said, " for whom 
I would be that for ever which I seem, 
Woman, if I might sit beside your feet. 
And glean your scatter^ sapience." 

Then once more, 
*' Are you that Lady Psyche," I began, 
" That on her bridal morn before she past 
From all her old companions, when the king 
KissM her pale cheek, declared that ancient ties 
Would still be dear beyond the southern hills ; 
That were there any of our people there 
In want or peril, there was one to hear 
And help them? look! for such are these and I." 
"Are you that Psyche," Florian askM, '*to whom, 
In gentler days, your arrow-wounded fawn 
Came flying while you sat beside the well? 
The creature laid his muzzle on your lap. 
And sobb'd, and you sobbM with it, and the blood 
Was sprinkled on your kirtle, and you wept. 
That was fawn^s blood, not brother's, yet you wept. 
O by the bright head of my little niece, 



36 THE PRINCESS; 

You were that Psyche, and what are you now?" 
" You are that Psyche/' Cyril said again, 
*' The mother of the sweetest little maid, 
That ever crow'd for kisses." 

" Out upon it ! " 
She answered, " peace ! and why should I not play 
The Spartan Mother with emotion, be 
The Lucius Junius Brutus of my kind ? 
Him you call great : he for the common weal, 
The fading politics of mortal Rome, 
As I might slay this child, if good need were, 
Slew both his sons : and I, shall I, on whom 
The secular emancipation turns 
Of half this world, be swerved from right to save 
A prince, a brother? a little will I yield. 
Best so, perchance, for us, and well for you. 
O hard, when love and duty clash ! I fear 
My conscience will not count me fleckless ; yet — 
Hear my conditions : promise (otherwise 
You perish) as you came, to slip away 
To-day, to-morrow, soon : it shall be said. 
These women were too barbarous, would not learn ; 
They fled, who might have shamed us: promise, 
all." 

What could we else, we promised each ; and she. 
Like some wild creature newly-caged, commenced 
A to-and-fro, so pacing till she paused 
By Florian ; holding out her lily arms 
Took both his hands, and smiling faintly said : 
" I knew you at the first : tho' you have grown 



A MEDLEY. 37 

You scarce have altered : I am sad and glad 
To see you, Florian. /give thee to death 
My brother ! it was duty spoke, not I. 
My needful seeming harshness, pardon it. 
Our mother, is she well? " 

With that she kiss'd 
His forehead, then, a moment after, clung 
About him, and betwixt them blossom'd up 
From out a common vein of memory 
Sweet household talk, and phrases of the hearth, 
And far allusion, till the gracious dews 
Began to glisten and to fall : and while 
They stood, so rapt, we gazing, came a voice, 
" I brought a message here from Lady Blanche/' 
Back started she, and turning round we saw 
The Lady Blanche's daughter where she stood, 
Melissa, with her hand upon the lock, 
A rosy blonde, and in a college gown, 
That clad her like an April daffodilly 
(Her mother's colour) with her lips apart, 
And all her thoughts as fair within her eyes, 
As bottom agates seen to wave and float 
In crystal currents of clear morning seas. 

So stood that same fair creature at the door. 
Then Lady Psyche, " Ah — Melissa — you ! 
You heard us? " and Melissa, " O pardon me! 
I heard, I could not help it, did not wish : 
But, dearest Lady, pray you fear me not, 
Nor think I bear that heart within my breast, 
To give three gallant gentlemen to death." 



38 THE PRINCESS; 

" I trust you," said the other, " for we two 

Were always friends, none closer, elm and vine : 

But yet your mother^s jealous temperament — 

Let not your prudence, dearest, drowse, or prove 

The Danaid of a leaky vase, for fear 

This whole foundation ruin, and I lose 

My honour, these their lives." "Ah, fear me not " 

Replied Melissa ; "no — I would not tell. 

No, not for all Aspasia's cleverness. 

No, not to answer, Madam, all those hard things 

That Sheba came to ask of Solomon." 

" Be it so " the other, " that we still may lead 

The new light up, and culminate in peace. 

For Solomon may come to Sheba yet." 

Said Cyril, '' Madam, he the wisest man 

Feasted the woman wisest then, in halls 

Of Lebanonian cedar : nor should you 

(Tho' Madam you should answer, we w^ould ask) 

Less welcome find among us, if you came 

Among us, debtors for our lives to you. 

Myself for something more." He said not what. 

But " Thanks," she answered " Go : we have been 

too long 
Together : keep your hoods about the face ; 
They do so that affect abstraction here. 
Speak little ; mix not with the rest ; and hold 
Your promise : all, I trust, may yet be well." 

We turn'd to go, but Cyril took the child, 
And held her round the knees against his waist, 
And blew the swolPn cheek of a trumpeter, 



A MEDLEY. 39 

While Psyche watch'd them, smiling, and the child 
Push'd her flat hand against his face and laughM ; 
And thus our conference closed. 

And then we strolPd 
For half the day thro' stately theatres 
Bench'd crescent-wise. In each we sat, we heard 
The grave Professor. On the lecture slate 
The circle rounded under female hands 
With flawless demonstration : followed then 
A classic lecture, rich in sentiment. 
With scraps of thundrous Epic lilted out 
By violet-hooded Doctors, elegies 
And quoted odes, and jewels flve-words-long 
That on the stretched forefinger of all Time 
Sparkle for ever : then we dipt in all 
That treats of whatsoever is, the state, 
The total chronicles of man, the mind, 
The morals, something of the frame, the rock, 
The star, the bird, the fish, the shell, the flower, 
Electric, chemic laws, and all the rest. 
And whatsoever can be taught and known ; 
Till like three horses that have broken fence, 
And glutted all night long breast-deep in corn, 
We issued gorged with knowledge, and I spoke : 
"Why, Sirs, they do all this as well as we." 
" They hunt old trails " said Cyril '' very well ; 
But when did woman ever yet invent?" 
" Ungracious ! " answered Florian ; have you learnt 
No more from Psyche's lecture, you that talk'd 
The trash that made me sick, and almost sad?" 
" O trash " he said, '^ but with a kernel in it. 



40 THE PRINCESS; 

Should I not call her wise, who made me wise? 

And learnt? I learnt more from her in a flash, 

Than if my brainpan were an empty hull, 

And every Muse tumbled a science in. 

A thousand hearts lie fallow in these halls, 

And round these halls a thousand baby loves 

Fly twanging headless arrows at the hearts, 

Whence follows many a vacant pang ; but O 

With me. Sir, enter'd in the bigger boy. 

The Head of all the golden-shafted firm, 

The long-limb'd lad that had a Psyche too ; 

He cleft me thro' the stomacher ; and now 

What think you of it, Florian ? do I chase 

The substance or the shadow? will it hold? 

I have no sorcerer's malison on me, 

No ghostly hauntings like his Highness. I 

Flatter myself that always everywhere 

I know the substance when I see it. Well, 

Are castles shadows ? Three of them ? Is she 

The sweet proprietress a shadow ? If not. 

Shall those three castles patch my tatter'd coat? 

For dear are those three castles to my wants. 

And dear is sister Psyche to my heart. 

And two dear things are one of double worth, 

And much I might have said, but that my zone 

Unmanned me : then the Doctors ! O to hear 

The Doctors ! O to watch the thirsty plants 

Imbibing ! once or twice I thought to roar, 

To break my chain, to shake my mane : but thou, 

Modulate me, Soul of mincing mimicry ! 

Make liquid treble of that bassoon, my throat; 



A MEDLEY. 41 

Abase those eyes that ever loved to meet 
Star-sisters answering under crescent brows ; 
Abate the stride, which speaks of man, and loose 
A flying charm of blushes o'er this cheek, 
Where they like swallows coming out of time 
Will wonder why they came : but hark the bell 
For dinner, let us go ! '' 

And in we streamed 
Among the columns, pacing staid and still 
By twos and threes, till all from end to end 
With beauties every shade of brown and fair 
In colours gayer than the morning mist, 
The long hall gUtter'd like a bed of flowers. 
How might a man not wander from his wits 
Pierced thro' with eyes, but that I kept mine own 
Intent on her, who rapt in glorious dreams, 
The second-sight of some Astraean age, 
Sat compassM with professors : they, the while, 
Discussed a doubt and tost it to and fro : 
A clamour thickened, mixt with inmost terms 
Of art and science : Lady Blanche alone 
Of faded form and haughtiest lineaments. 
With all her autumn tresses falsely brown. 
Shot sidelong daggers at us, a tiger-cat 
In act to spring. 

At last a solemn grace 
Concluded, and we sought the gardens : there 
One walk'd reciting by herself, and one 
In this hand held a volume as to read, 
And smoothed a petted peacock down with that : 
Some to a low song oar'd a shallop by, 



42 THE PRINCESS; 

Or under arches of the marble bridge 

Hung, shadow'd from the heat : some hid and sought 

In the orange thickets : others tost a ball 

Above the fountain-jets, and back again 

With laughter : others lay about the lawns. 

Of the older sort, and murmured that their May 

Was passing: what was learning unto them? 

They wish'd to marry ; they could rule a house ; 

Men hated learned women : but we three 

Sat muffled like the Fates ; and often came 

Melissa hitting all we saw with shafts 

Of gentle satire, kin to charity, 

That harmed not : then day droopt ; the chapel bells 

CalPd us : we left the walks ; we mixt with those 

Six hundred maidens clad in purest white, 

Before two streams of light from wall to wall, 

While the great organ almost burst his pipes, 

Groaning for power, and rolling thro' the court 

A long melodious thunder to the sound 

Of solemn psalms, and silver litanies, 

The work of Ida, to call down from Heaven 

A blessing on her labours for the world. 



A MEDLEY, 43 



Sweet and low, sweet and low, 

Wind of the western sea, 
Low, low, breathe and blow, 

Wind of the western sea ! 
Over the rolling waters go, 
Come from the dying moon, and blow, 

Blow him again to me ; 
While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, 

Father will come to thee soon ; 
Rest, rest, on mother's breast. 

Father will come to thee soon ; 
Father will come to his babe in the nest. 
Silver sails all out of the west 

Under the silver moon : 
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY, 45 



PART III, 



Morn in the white wake of the morning star 
Came furrowing all the orient into gold. 
We rose, and each by other drest with care 
Descended to the court that lay three parts 
In shadow, but the Muses' heads were touch'd 
Above the darkness from their native East. 



There while we stood beside the fount, and 

watch'd 
Or seem'd to watch the dancing bubble, approach'd 
Melissa, tinged with wan from lack of sleep. 
Or grief, and glowing round her dewy eyei^ 
The circled Iris of a night of tears ; 
" And fly," she cried, " O fly, while yet you may ! 
My mother knows : " and when I ask'd her " how,'' 
" My fault " she wept '' my fault ! and yet not 

mine ; 
Yet mine in part. O hear me, pardon me. 
My mother, 'tis her wont from night to night 
To rail at Lady Psyche and her side. 
She says the Princess should have been the H^a(l, 
Herself and Lady Psyche the two arms ; 
And so it was agreed when first they came ; 
But Lady Psyche was the right hand now, 



46 THE PRINCESS; 

And she the left, or not, or seldom used ; 

Hers more than half the students, all the love. 

And so last night she fell to canvass you : 

Her countrywomen ! she did not envy her. 

^ Who ever saw such wild barbarians ? 

Girls? — more like men!' and at these words the 

snake, 
My secret, seemM to stir within my breast ; 
And oh, Sirs, could I help it, but my cheek 
Began to burn and burn, and her lynx eye 
To fix and make me hotter, till she laugh'd : 

* O marvellously modest maiden, you ! 

Men! girls, like men ! why, if they had been men 
You need not set your thoughts in rubric thus 
For wholesale comment.'' Pardon, I am shamed 
That I must needs repeat for my excuse 
What looks so little graceful : ^ men ' (for still 
My mother went revolving on the word) 
^ And so they are, — very like men indeed — 
And with that woman closeted for hours ! ' 
Then came these dreadful words out one by one, 
'- Why — these — are — men : ' I shudder'd : * and 
you know it.' 

* O ask me nothing,' I said : * And she knows 

too. 
And she conceals it.' So my mother clutch'd 
The truth at once, but with no word from me ; 
And now thus early risen she goes to inform 
The Princess : Lady Psyche will be crush'd ; 
But you may yet be saved, and therefore fly : 
But heal me with your pardon ere you go." 



A MEDLEY. 47 

" What pardon, sweet Melissa, for a blush?" 
Said Cyril : " Pale one, blush again : than wear 
Those lilies, better blush our lives away. 
Yet let us breathe for one hour more in Heaven " 
He added, '' lest some classic Angel speak 
In scorn of us, ^ They mounted, Ganymedes, 
To tumble, Vulcans, on the second morn.' 
But I will melt this marble into wax 
To yield us farther furlough : " and he went. 

Melissa shook her doubtful curls, and thought 
He scarce would prosper. " Tell us,'' Florian ask'd, 
" How grew this feud betwixt the right and left." 
" O long ago," she said, " betwixt these two 
Division smoulders hidden ; 'tis my mother. 
Too jealous, often fretful as the wind 
Pent in a crevice : much I bear with her : 
I never knew my father, but she says 
(God help her) she was wedded to a fool ; 
And still she raiPd against the state of things. 
She had the care of Lady Ida's youth, 
And from the Queen's decease she brought her 

up. 
But when your sister came she won the heart 
Of Ida : they were still together, grew 
(For so they said themselves) inosculated ; 
Consonant chords that shiver to one note ; 
One mind in all things : yet my mother still 
Affirms your Psyche thieved her theories, 
And angled with them for her pupil's love : 
She calls her plagiarist ; I know not what : 



48 THE PRINCESS ; 

But I must go : I dare not tarry," and light, 
As flies the shadow of a bird, she fled. 

Then murmur'd Florian gazing after her, 
"An open-hearted maiden, true and pure. 
If I could love, why this were she : how pretty 
Her blushing was, and how she blush'd again, 
As if to close with Cyril's random wish : 
Not like your Princess cramm'd with erring pride. 
Nor like poor Psyche whom she drags in tow." 

" The crane," I said, " may chatter of the craney 
The dove may murmur of the dove, but I 
An eagle clang an eagle to the sphere. 
My princess, O my princess ! true she errs, 
But in her own grand way : being herself 
Three times more noble than three score of men, 
She sees herself in every woman else, 
And so she wears her error like a crown 
To blind the truth and me : for her, and her, 
Hebes are they to hand ambrosia, mix 
The nectar ; but — ah she — whene'er she moves 
The Samian Here rises and she speaks 
A Memnon smitten with the morning Sun." 

So saying from the court we paced, and gain'd 
The terrace ranged along the Northern front, 
And leaning there on those balusters, high 
Above the empurpled champaign, drank the gale 
That blown about the foliage underneath. 
And sated with the innumerable rose. 



|i 



A MEDLEY, 49 

Beat balm upon our eyelids. Hither came 
Cyril, and yawning " O hard task," he cried ; 
" No fighting shadows here ! I forced a way 
Thro^ soHd opposition crabb'd and gnarPd. 
Better to clear prime forests, heave and thump 
A league of street in summer solstice down, 
Than hammer at this reverend gentlewoman. 
I knockM and, bidden, enter-d ; found her there 
At point to move, and settled in her eyes 
The green malignant light of coming storm. 
Sir, I was courteous, every phrase well-oiPd, 
As man^s could be ; yet maiden-meek I pray'd 
Concealment : she demanded who we were, 
And why we came? I fabled nothing fair, 
But, your example pilot, told her all. 
Up went the hush'd amaze of hand and eye. 
But when I dwelt upon youf old affiance, 
She answerM sharply that I talk'd astray. 
I urged the fierce inscription on the gate. 
And our three lives. True — we had limed our- 
selves 
With open eyes, and we must take the chance. 
But such extremes, I told her, well might harm 
The woman's cause. 'Not more than now,' she 

said, 
* So puddled as it is with favouritism.' 
I tried the mother's heart. Shame might befall 
Melissa, knowing, saying not she knew : 
Her answer was ' Leave me to deal with that.' 
I spoke of war to come and many deaths, 
And she replied, her duty was to speak, 



50 THE PRINCESS; 

And duty duty, clear of consequences. 

I grew discouraged, Sir ; but since I knew 

No rock so hard but that a Httle wave 

May beat admission in a thousand years, 

I recommenced; ' Decide not ere you pause. 

I find you here but in the second place, 

Some say the third — the authentic foundress you. 

I offer boldly : we will seat you highest : 

Wink at our advent : help my prince to gain 

His rightful bride, and here I promise you 

Some palace in our land, where you shall reign 

The head and heart of all our fair she-world, 

And your great name flow on with broadening time 

For ever.' Weil, she balanced this a little, 

And told me she would answer us to-day. 

Meantime be mute : thus much, nor more I gain'd." 

He ceasing, came a message from the Head. 
" That afternoon the Princess rode to take 
The dip of certain strata to the North. 
Would we go with her? we should find the land 
Worth seeing ; and the river made a fall 
Out yonder : " then she pointed on to where 
A double hill ran up his furrowy forks 
Beyond the thick-leaved platans of the vale. 

Agreed to, this, the day fled on thro' all 
Its range of duties to the appointed hour. 
Then summoned to the porch we went. She stood 
Among her maidens, higher by the head, 
Her back against a pillar, her foot on one 



A MEDLEY. 51 

i those tame leopards. Kittenlike he roll'd 
And paw'd about her sandal. I drew near ; 
I gazed. On a sudden my strange seizure came 
Upon me, the weird vision of our house : 
The Princess Ida seemM a hollow show, 
Her gay-furr'd cats a painted fantasy, 
Her college and her maidens, empty masks, 
And I myself the shadow of a dream. 
For all things were and were not. Yet I felt 
My heart beat thick with passion and with awe ; 
Then from my breast the involuntary sigh 
Brake, as she smote me with the light of eyes 
That lent my knee desire to kneel, and shook 
My pulses, till to horse we got, and so 
Went forth in long retinue following up 
The river as it narrowM to the hills. 

I rode beside her and to me she said : 
"• O friend, we trust that you esteem'd us not 
Too harsh to your companion yestermorn ; 
Unwillingly we spake." " No — not to her," 
I answered, " but to one of whom we spake 
Your Highness might have seemM the thing you 

say." 
"Again?" she cried, "are you ambassadresses 
From him to me? we give you, being strange, 
A license : speak, and let the topic die." 



I stammer'd that I knew him — could have 
wishM — 
" Our king expects — was there no precontract ? 



52 THE PRINCESS; 

There is no truer-hearted — ah, you seem 
All he prefigured, and he could not see 
The bird of passage flying south but long'd 
To follow : surely, if your Highness keep 
Your purport, you will shock him ev'n to death, 
Or baser courses, children of despair." 

"Poor boy," she said, "can he not read — no 
books ? 
Quoit, tennis, ball — no games? nor deals in that 
Which men delight in, martial exercise? 
To nurse a blind ideal like a girl, 
Methinks he seems no better than a girl ; 
As girls were once, as we ourself have been : 
We had our dreams ; perhaps he mixt with them : 
We touch on our dead self, nor shun to do it, 
Being other — since we learnt our meaning here, 
To lift the woman's falPn divinity 
Upon an even pedestal with man." 

She paused, and added with a haughtier smile 
" And as to precontracts, we move, my friend, 
At no man's beck, but know ourself and thee, 

Vashti, noble Vashti ! Summoned out 
She kept her state, and left the dnmken king 
To brawl at Shushan underneath the palms." 

" Alas your Highness breathes full East," I said, 
" On that which leans to you. I know the Prince, 

1 prize his truth : and then how vast a work 
To assail this gray preeminence of man ! 



A MEDLEY, 53 

You grant me license ; might I use it? think; 
Ere half be done perchance your life may fail ; 
Then comes the feebler heiress of your plan, 
And takes and ruins all ; and thus your pains 
May only make that footprint upon sand 
Which old-recurring waves of prejudice 
Resmooth to nothing : might I dread that you, 
With only Fame for spouse and your great deeds 
For issue, yet may live in vain, and miss, 
Meanwhile, what every woman counts her due, 
Love, children, happiness?" 

And she exclaimM, 
" Peace, you young savage of the Northern wild ! 
What ! tho' your Prince's love were like a God's, 
Have we not made ourself the sacrifice ? 
You are bold indeed : we are not talk'd to thus : 
Yet will we say for children, would they grew 
Like field-flowers everywhere ! we like them well : 
But children die ; and let me tell you, girl, 
Howe'er you babble, great deeds cannot die ; 
They with the sun and moon renew their light 
For ever, blessing those that look on them. 
Children — that men may pluck them from our 

hearts. 
Kill us with pity, break us with ourselves — 
O — children — there is nothing upon earth 
More miserable than she that has a son 
And sees him err : nor would we work for fame ; 
Tho' she perhaps might reap the applause of Great, 
Who learns the one POU STO whence after-hands 
May move the world, tho' she herself effect 



54 THE PRINCESS; 

But little : wherefore up and act, nor shrink 

For fear our solid aim be dissipated 

By frail successors. Would, indeed, we had been, 

In lieu of many mortal flies, a race 

Of giants living, each, a thousand years, 

That we might see our own work out, and watch 

The sandy footprint harden into stone." 

I answered nothing, doubtful in myself 
If that strange Poet-princess with her grand 
Imaginations might at all be won. 
And she broke out interpreting my thoughts : 

" No doubt we seem a kind of monster to you ; 
We are used to that : for women, up till this 
Cramped under worse than South-sea-isle taboo, 
Dwarfs of the gynaeceum, fail so far 
In high desire, they know not, cannot guess 
How much their welfare is a passion to us. 
If we could give them surer, quicker proof — 
Oh if our end were less achievable 
By slow approaches, than by single act 
Of immolation, any phase of death. 
We were as prompt to spring against the pikes, 
Or down the fiery gulf as talk of it, 
To compass our dear sisters' liberties." 

She bowM as if to veil a noble tear ; 
And up we came to where the river sloped 
To plunge in cataract, shattering on black blocks 
A breadth of thunder. O'er it shook the woods, 



A MEDLEY, SS 

And danced the colour, and, below, stuck out 
The bones of some vast bulk that lived and roar'd 
Before man was. She gazed awhile and said, 
"As these rude bones to us, are we to her 
That will be.*" " Dare we dream of that,'' I ask'd, 
" Which wrought us, as the workman and his work, 
That practice betters?" "How,'' she cried, "you 

love 
The metaphysics ! read and earn our prize, 
A golden brooch : beneath an emerald plane 
Sits Diotima, teaching him that died 
Of hemlock ; our device ; wrought to the life ; 
She rapt upon her subject, he on her : 
For there are schools for all." " And yet " I said 
" Methinks I have not found among therh all 
One anatomic." " Nay, we thought of that," 
She answered, " but it pleased us not : in truth 
We shudder but to dream our maids should ape 
Those monstrous males that carve the living hound, 
And cram him with the fragments of the grave, 
Or in the dark dissolving human heart, 
And holy secrets of this microcosm. 
Dabbling a shameless hand with shameful jest, 
Encarnalize their spirits : yet we know 
Knowledge is knowledge, and this matter hangs : 
Howbeit ourself, foreseeing casualty, 
Nor willing men should come among us, learnt, 
For many weary moons before we came. 
This craft of healing. Were you sick, ourself 
Would tend upon you. To your question now, 
Which touches on the workman and his work. 



56 THE PRINCESS; 

Let there be light and there was light : His so : 

For was, and is, and will be, are but is ; 

And all creation is one act at once, 

The birth of light : but we that are not all, 

As parts, can see but parts, now this, now that, 

And live, perforce, from thought to thought, and 

make 
One act a phantom of succession : thus 
Our weakness somehow shapes the shadow. Time ; 
But in the shadow will we work, and mould 
The woman to the fuller day." 

She spake 
With kindled eyes : we rode a league beyond. 
And, o'er a bridge of pinewood crossing, came 
On flowery levels underneath the crag, 
Full of all beauty. " O how sweet '' I said 
(For I was half-oblivious of my mask) 
"To linger here with one that loved us." "Yea," 
She answer'd, " or with fair philosophies 
That lift the fancy ; for indeed these fields 
Are lovely, lovelier not the Elysian lawns, 
Where paced the Demigods of old, and saw 
The soft white vapour streak the crowned towers 
Built to the Sun : " then, turning to her maids, 
" Pitch our pavilion here upon the sward ; 
Lay out the viands." At the word, they raised 
A tent of satin, elaborately wrought 
With fair Corinna's triumph ; here she stood, 
Engirt with many a florid maiden-cheek. 
The woman-conqueror ; woman-conquer'd there 
The bearded Victor of ten-thousand hymns, 



A MEDLEY, 57 

And all the men mourn'd at his side : but we 
Set forth to climb ; then, climbing, Cyril kept 
With Psyche, with Melissa Florian, I 
With mine affianced. Many a little hand 
Glanced like a touch of sunshine on the rocks, 
Many a light foot shone like a jewel set 
In the dark crag : and then we turn'd, we wound 
About the cliffs, the copses, out and in, 
Hammering and clinking, chattering stony names 
Of shale and hornblende, rag and trap and tuff, 
Amygdaloid and trachyte, till the Sun 
Grew broader toward his death and fell, and all 
The rosy heights came out above the lawns. 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 59 



The splendour falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story: 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O hark, O hear ! how thin and clear. 
And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 
O sweet and far from cliff and scar 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying : 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky. 

They faint on hill or field or river : 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul 
And grow for ever and for ever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY. 61 



PART IV. 

" There sinks the nebulous star we call the Sun, 
If that hypothesis of theirs be sound " 
Said Ida ; " let us down and rest ; '^ and we 
Down from the lean and wrinkled precipices, 
By every coppice-feather'd chasm and cleft, 
Dropt thro' the ambrosial gloom to where below 
No bigger than a glow-worm shone the tent 
Lamp-lit from the inner. Once she leanM on me, 
Descending ; once or twice she lent her hand, 
And blissful palpitations in the blood, 
Stirring a sudden transport rose and fell. 

But when we planted level feet, and dipt 
Beneath the satin dome and enter'd in, 
There leaning deep in broider'd down we sank 
Our elbows : on a tripod in the midst 
A fragrant flame rose, and before us glow'd 
Fruit, blossom, viand, amber wine, and gold. 

Then she, " Let some one sing to us : lightlier 
move 
The minutes fledged with music : " and a maid. 
Of those beside her, smote her harp, and sang. 



62 THE PRINCESS; 

" Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, 
Tears from the depth of some divine despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 

" Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail. 
That brings our friends up from the underworld, 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge ; 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

" Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awaken' d birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square ; 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 

" Dear as remember'd kisses after death. 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd 
On lips that are for others ; deep as love, 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ; 
O Death in Life, the days that are no more." 

She ended with such passion that the tear, 
She sang of, shook and fell, an erring pearl 
Lost in her bosom : but with some disdain 
Answer^ the Princess, ^' If indeed there haunt 
About the moulderM lodges of the Past 
So sweet a voice and vague, fatal to men, 
Well needs it we should cram our ears with wool 
And so pace by : but thine are fancies hatchM 
In silken-folded idleness ; nor is it 
Wiser to weep a true occasion lost, 



A MEDLEY. 63 

But trim our sails, and let old bygones be, 
While down the streams that float us each and all 
To the issue, goes, like glittering bergs of ice. 
Throne after throne, and molten on the waste 
iiecomes a cloud : for all things serve their time 
Toward that great year of equal mights and rights. 
Nor would I fight with iron laws, in the end 
Found golden : let the past be past ; let be 
Their cancelPd Babels : tho' the rough kex break 
The starr'd mosaic, and the beard-blown goat 
Hang on the shaft, and the wild figtree split 
Their monstrous idols, care not while we hear 
A trumpet in the distance pealing news 
Of better, and Hope, a poising eagle, burns 
Above the unrisen morrow : " then to me ; 
" Know you no song of your own land," she said, 
" Not such as moans about the retrospect, 
But deals with the other distance and the hues 
Of promise ; not a death's-head at the wine/' 

Then I remembered one myself had made, 
What time I watch'd the swallow winging south 
From mine own land, part made long since, and part 
Now while I sang, and maidenlike as far 
As I could ape their treble, did I sing. 

*' O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South, 
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, 
And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee. 

" O tell her. Swallow, thou that knowest each, 
That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, 
And dark and true and tender is the North. 



64 THE PRINCESS; 

" O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light 
Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, 
And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. 

" O were I thou that she might take me in, 
And lay me on her bosom, and. her heart 
Would rock the snowy cradle till I died. 

"Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, 
Delaying as the tender ash delays 
To clothe herself, when all the woods are green? 

" O tell her. Swallow, that thy brood is flown: 
Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, 
But in the North long since my nest is made, 

" O tell her, brief is life but love is long. 
And brief the sun of summer in the North, 
And brief the moon of beauty in the South. 

" O Swallow, flying from the golden woods, 
Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine, 
And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee." 



I ceased, and all the ladies, each at each, 
Like the Ithacensian suitors in old time, 
Stared with great eyes, and laugh'd with alien lips, 
And knew not what they meant ; for still my voice 
Rang false : but smiling " Not for thee," she said, 
" O Bulbul, any rose of Gulistan 
Shall burst her veil : marsh-divers, rather, maid, 
Shall croak thee sister, or the meadow-crake 
Grate her harsh kindred in the grass : and this 
A mere love-poem ! O for such, my friend. 



i 



A MEDLEY. 65 

We hold them slight : they mind us of the time 

When we made bricks in Egypt. Knaves are men, 

That lute and flute fantastic tenderness, 

And dress the victim to the offering up. 

And paint the gates of Hell with Paradise, 

And play the slave to gain the tyranny. 

Poor soul ! I had a maid of honour once ; 

She wept her true eyes blind for such a one, 

A rogue of canzonets and serenades. 

I loved her. Peace be with her. She is dead. 

So they blaspheme the muse ! But great is song 

Used to great ends : ourself have often tried 

Valkyrian hymns, or into rhythm have dashed 

The passion of the prophetess ; for song 

Is duer unto freedom, force and growth 

Of spirit than to junketing and love. 

Love is it? Would this same mock-love, and 

this 
Mock-Hymen were laid up like winter bats, 
Till all men grew to rate us at our worth. 
Not vassals to be beat, nor pretty babes 
To be dandled, no, but living wills, and sphered 
Whole in ourselves and owed to none. Enough ! 
But now to leaven play with profit, you, 
Know you no song, the true growth of your soil. 
That gives the manners of your countrywomen? " 

She spoke and turn'd her sumptuous head with 
eyes 
Of shining expectation fixt on mine. 
Then while I dragged my brains for such a song, 



66 THE PRINCESS ; 

Cyril, with whom the bell-mouth'd glass had 

wrought, 
Or masterd by the sense of sport, began 
To troll a careless, careless- tavern-catch 
Of Moll and Meg, and strange experiences 
Unmeet for ladies. Florian nodded at him, 
I frowning ; Psyche flush'd and wann'd and shook ; 
The lilylike Melissa drooped her brows ; 
''Forbear,^' the Princess cried; "Forbear, Sir" I; 
And heated thro' and thro' with wr^th and love, 
I smote him on the breast ; he started up ; 
There rose a shriek as of a city sack'd ; 
Melissa clamoured " Flee the death ; " " To horse " 
Said Ida ; " home ! to horse ! '' and fled, as flies 
A troop of snowy doves athwart the dusk, 
When some one batters at the dovecote-doors, 
Disorderly the women. Alone I stood 
With Florian, cursing Cyril, vext at heart. 
In the pavilion : there like parting hopes 
I heard them passing from me : hoof by hoof, 
And every hoof a knell to my desires, 
Clang'd on the bridge ; and then another shriek, 
*' The Head, the Head, the Princess, O the Head!" 
For blind with rage she miss'd the plank, and rolPd 
In the river. Out I sprang from glow to gloom : 
There whirPd her white robe like a blossomed branch 
Rapt to the horrible fall : a glance I gave. 
No more ; but woman-vested as I was 
Plunged; and the flood drew; yet I caught her; 

then 
Oaring one arm, and bearing in my left 



A MEDLEY. 67 

The weight of all the hopes of half the world, 
Strove to buifet to land in vain. A tree 
Was half-disrooted from his place and stoopM 
To drench his dark locks in the gurgling wave 
Mid-channel. Right on this we drove and caught, 
And grasping down the bows I gain'd the shore. 

There stood her maidens glimmeringly group'd 
In the hollow bank. One reaching forward drew 
My burthen from mine arms ; they cried '' she lives : " 
They bore her back into the tent : but I, 
So much a kind of shame within me wrought, 
Not yet endured to meet her opening eyes, 
Nor found my friends ; but push'd alone on foot 
(For since her horse was lost I left her mine) 
Across the woods, and less from Indian craft 
Than beelike instinct hiveward, found at length 
The garden portals. Two great statues, Art 
And Science, Caryatids, lifted up 
A weight of emblem, and betwixt were valves 
Of open-work in which the hunter rued 
His rash intrusion, manlike, but his brows 
Had sprouted, and the branches thereupon 
Spread out at top, and grimly spiked the gates. 

A little space was left between the horns, 
Thro' which I clamber'd o'er at top with pain, 
Dropt on the sward, and up the linden walks, 
And, tost on thoughts that changed from hue to hue, 
Now poring on the glowworm, now the star, 
I paced the terrace, till the Bear had wheePd 



68 THE PRINCESS; 

Thro' a great arc his seven slow suns. 

A step 
Of lightest echo, then a loftier form 
Than female, moving thro' the uncertain gloom, 
Disturbed me with the doubt " if this were she," 
But it was Florian. " Hist O Hist," he said, 
" They seek us : out so late is out of rules. 
Moreover * seize the strangers ' is the cry. 
How came you here ? " I told him : " I " said 

he, 
^' Last of the train, a moral leper, I, 
To whom none spake, half-sick at heart, return'd. 
Arriving all confused among the rest 
With hooded brows I crept into the hall. 
And, couch'd behind a Judith, underneath 
The head of Holofernes peep'd and saw. ' 

Girl after girl was calPd to trial : each 
Disclaimed all knowledge of us : last of all, 
Melissa : trust me. Sir, I pitied her. 
She, questioned if she knew us men, at first 
Was silent ; closer prest, denied it not : 
And then, demanded if her mother knew, 
Or Psyche, she affirmed not, or denied : 
From whence the Royal mind, familiar with her, 
Easily gathered either guilt. She sent 
For Psyche, but she was not there ; she calPd 
For Psyche's child to cast it from the doors ; 
She sent for Blanche to accuse her face to face ; 
And I slipt out : but whither will you now? 
And where are Psyche, Cyril? both are fled: 
What, if together? that were not so well. 



4i 






A MEDLEY, 69 

Would rather we had never come ! I dread 
His wildness, and the chances of the dark." 

" And yet," I said, " you wrong him more than I 
That struck him : this is proper to the clown, 
Tho^ smockM, or furr'd and purpled, still the clown, 
To harm the thing that trusts him, and to shame 
That which he says he loves : for Cyril, however 
He deal in froHc, as to-night — the song 
Might have been worse and sinnM in grosser 

lips 
Beyond all pardon — as it is, I hold 
These flashes on the surface are not he. 
He has a solid base of temperament : 
But as the waterlily starts and slides ^ 

Upon the level in little puffs of wind, 
Tho' anchorM to the bottom, such is he."" 

Scarce had I ceased when from a tamarisk near 
Two Proctors leapt upon us, crying, "Names : " 
He, standing still, was clutched ; but I began 
To thrid the musky-circled mazes, wind 
And double in and out the boles, and race 
By all the fountains : fleet I was of foot : 
Before me shower'd the rose in flakes ; behind 
I heard the puffM pursuer ; at mine ear 
Bubbled the nightingale and heeded not, 
And secret laughter tickled all my soul. 
At last I hookM my ankle in a vine, 
That claspt the feet of a Mnemosyne, 
And falling on my face was caught and known. 



70 THE PRINCESS; 

They haled us to the Princess where she sat 
High in the hall : above her droopM a lamp, 
And made the single jewel on her brow 
Burn like the mystic fire on a mast-head, 
Prophet of storm : a handmaid on each side 
BowM toward her, combing out her long black hair 
Damp from the river ; and close behind her stood 
Eight daughters of the plough, stronger than men, 
Huge women blowzed with health, and wind, and 

rain, 
And labour. Each was like a Druid rock ; 
Or like a spire of land that stands apart 
Cleft from the main, and waiPd about with mews. 

Then, as we came, the crowd dividing clove 
An advent to the throne : and therebeside. 
Half-naked as if caught at once from bed 
And tumbled on the purple footcloth, lay 
The lily-shining child ; and on the left, 
Bow'd on her palms and folded up from wrong, 
Her round white shoulder shaken with her sobs, 
Melissa knelt ; but Lady Blanche erect 
Stood up and spake, an affluent orator. 

"It was not thus, O Princess, in old days: 
You prized my counsel, lived upon my lips : 
I led you then to all the Castalies ; 
I fed you with the milk of every Muse ; 
I loved you like this kneeler, and you me 
Your second mother : those were gracious times. 
Then came your new friend : you began to change — 



A MEDLEY. 71 

I saw it and grieved — to slacken and to cool ; 
Till taken with her seeming openness 
You turn'd your warmer currents all to her, 
To me you froze : this was my meed for all. 
Yet I bore up in part from ancient love, 
And partly that I hoped to win you back. 
And partly conscious of my own deserts. 
And partly that you were my civil head. 
And chiefly you were born for something great, 
In which I might your fellow-worker be, 
When time should serve ; and thus a noble scheme 
Grew up from seed we two long since had sown ; 
In us true growth, in her a Jonah^s gourd, 
Up in one night and due to sudden sun : 
We took this palace ; but even from the first 
You stood in your own light and darken'd mine. 
What student came but that you planed her path 
To Lady Psyche, younger, not so wise, 
A foreigner, and I your countrywoman, 
I your old friend and tried, she new in all? 
But still her lists were swelPd and mine were lean ; 
Yet I bore up in hope she would be known : 
Then came these wolves : they knew her : they en- 
dured. 
Long-closeted with her the yestermorn, 
To tell her what they were, and she to hear : 
And me none told : not less to an eye like mine , 
A lidless watcher of the public weal. 
Last night, their mask was patent, and my foot 
Was to you : but I thought again : I fear'd 
To meet a cold ' We thank you, we shall hear of it 



72 THE PRINCESS; 

From Lady Psyche : ' you had gone to her, 

She told, perforce ; and winning easy grace, 

No doubt, for slight delay, remained among us 

In our young nursery still unknown, the stem 

Less grain than touchwood, while my honest heat 

Were all miscounted as malignant haste 

To push my rival out of place and power. 

But public use required she should be known ; 

And since my oath was ta'en for public use, 

I broke the letter of it to keep the sense. 

I spoke not then at first, but watched them well, 

Saw that they kept apart, no mischief done ; 

And yet this day (tho^ you should hate me for it) 

I came to tell you ; found that you had gone, 

Ridd'n to the hills, she likewise : now, I thought, 

That surely she will speak ; if not, then I : 

Did she? These monsters blazon'd what thej^ 

were. 
According to the coarseness of their kind. 
For thus I hear ; and known at last (my work) 
And full of cowardice and guilty shamx, 
I grant in her some sense of shame, she flies ; 
And I remain on whom to wreak your rage, 
I, that have lent my life to build up yours, 
I that have wasted here health, wealth, and time, 
And talent, I — you know it — I will not boast: 
Dismiss me, and I prophesy your plan, 
Divorced from my experience, will be chaff 
For every gust of chance, and men will say 
We did not know the real light, but chased 
The wisp that flickers where no foot can tread." 



A MEDLEY. 73 

She ceased: the Princess answer^ coldly, "Good: 
Your oath is broken: we dismiss you: go. 
For this lost lamb (she pointed to the child) 
Our mind is changed : we take it to ourself." 

Thereat the Lady stretched a vulture throat, 
And shot from crooked lips a haggard smile. 
" The plan was mine. I built the nest " she said 
" To hatch the cuckoo. Rise ! " and stoop'd to up- 

drag 
Melissa : she, half on her mother propt, 
Half-drooping from her, turn'd her face, and cast 
A liquid look on Ida, full of prayer, 
Which melted Florian's fancy as she hung, 
A Niobean daughter, one arm out, 
Appealing to the bolts of Heaven ; and while 
We gazed upon her came a little stir 
About the doors, and on a sudden rush'd 
Among us, out of breath, as one pursued, 
A woman-post in flying raiment. Fear 
Stared in her eyes, and chalk'd her face, and wingM 
Her transit to the throne, whereby she fell 
Delivering seaPd dispatches which the Head 
Took half-amazed, and in her lion's mood 
Tore open, silent we with blind surmise 
Regarding, while she read, till over brow 
And cheek and bosom brake the wrathful bloom 
As of some fire against a stormy cloud. 
When the wild peasant rights himself, the rick 
Flames, and his anger reddens in the heavens ; 
For anger most it seeni'd, while now her breast, 



74 THE PRINCESS; 

Beaten with some great passion at her heart. 

Palpitated, her hand shook, and we heard 

In the dead hush the papers that she held 

Rustle : at once the lost lamb at her feet 

Sent out a bitter bleating for its dam ; 

The plaintive cry jarr'd on her ire ; she crushed 

The scrolls together, made a sudden turn 

As if to speak, but, utterance failing her, 

She whirPd them on to me, as who should say 

" Read,'' and I read — two letters — one her sire's. 

"Fair daughter, when we sent the Prince your 
way 
We knew not your ungracious laws, which learnt, 
We, conscious of what temper you are built, 
Came all in haste to hinder wrong, but fell 
Into his father's hands, who has this night, 
You lying close upon his territory, 
Sh'pt round and in the dark invested you. 
And here he keeps me hostage for his son." 

The second was my father's running thus : 
" You have our son : touch not a hair of his head : 
Render him up unscathed : give him your hand : 
Cleave to your contract : tho' indeed we hear 
You hold the woman is the better man ; 
A rampant heresy, such as if it spread 
Would make all women kick against their Lords 
Thro' all the world, and which might well deserve 
That we this night should pluck your palace down , 
And we will do it, unless you send us bark 



A MEDLEY. IS 

Our son, on the instant, whole." 

So far I read ; 
And then stood up and spoke impetuously. 

^' O not to pry and peer on your reserve, 
But led by golden wishes, and a hope 
The child of regal compact, did I break 
Your precinct ; not a scorner of your sex 
But venerator, zealous it should be 
All that it might be : hear me, for I bear, 
Tho' man, yet human, whatsoe'er your wrongs, 
From the flaxen curl to the gray lock a life 
Less mine than yours : my nurse would tell me of 

you; 
I babbled for you, as babies for the moon. 
Vague brightness ; when a boy, you stoopM to me 
From all high places, lived in all fair lights, 
Came in long breezes rapt from inmost south 
And blown to inmost north ; at eve and dawn 
With Ida, Ida, Ida, rang the woods ; 
The leader wildswan in among the stars 
Would clang it, and lapt in wreaths of glowworm 

light 

The mellow breaker murmurM Ida. Now, 
Because I would have reachM you, had you been 
Sphered up with Cassiopeia, or the enthroned 
Persephone in Hades, now at length. 
Those winters of abeyance all worn out, 
A man I came to see you : but, indeed, 
Not in this frequence can I lend full tongue, 
O noble Ida, to those thoughts that wait 



76 THE PRINCESS; 

On you, their centre : let me say but this, 

That many a famous man and woman, town 

And landskip, have I heard of, after seen 

The dwarfs of presage : tho' when known, there 

grew 
Another kind of beauty in detail 
Made them worth knowing ; but in you I found 
My boyish dream involved and dazzled down 
And mastered, while that after-beauty makes 
Such head from act to act, from hour to hour, 
Within me, that except you slay me here, 
According to your bitter statute-book, 
I cannot cease to follow you, as they say 
The seal does music ; who desire you more 
Than growing boys their manhood ; dying lips, 
With many thousand matters left to do. 
The breath of life ; O more than poor men wealth, 
Than sick men health — yours, yours, not mine — 

but half 
Without you ; with you, whole ; and of those 

halves 
You worthiest ; and howe'er you block and bar 
Your heart with system out from mine, I hold 
That it becomes no man to nurse despair. 
But in the teeth of clench'd antagonisms 
To follow up the worthiest till he di^ : 
Yet that I came not all unauthorized 
Behold your father's letter.^' 

On one knee 
Kneeling, I gave it, which she caught, and dashM 
Unopened at her feet : a tide of fierce 



A MEDLEY. 77 

Invective seem'd to wait behind her lips, 

As waits a river level with the dam 

Ready to burst and flood the world with foam ; 

And so she would have spoken, but there rose 

A hubbub in the court of half the maids 

Gathered together : from the illumined hall 

Long lanes of splendour slanted o'er a press 

Of snowy shoulders, thick as herded ewes. 

And rainbow robes, and gems and gemlike eyes, 

And gold and golden heads ; they to and fro 

Fluctuated, as flowers in storm, some red, some pale, 

All open-mouth'd, all gazing to the light. 

Some crying there was an army in the land, 

And some that men were in the very walls. 

And some they cared not ; till a clamour grew 

As of a new-world Babel, woman-built. 

And worse-confounded : high aboVe them stood 

The placid marble Muses, looking peace. 

Not peace she look'd, the Head : but rising up 
Robed in the long night of her deep hair, so 
To the open window moved, remaining there 
Fixt like a beacon-tower above the waves 
Of tempest, when the crimson-rolling eye 
Glares ruin, and the wild birds on the light 
Dash themselves dead. She stretched her arms and 

calPd 
Across the tumult and the tumult fell. 

"What fear ye, brawlers? am not I your Head? 
On me, me, me, the storm first breaks : /dare 



78 THE PRINCESS; 

All these male thunderbolts : what is it ye fear? 
Peace ! there are those to avenge us and they come : 
If not, — myself were like enough, O girls, 
To unfurl the maiden banner of our rights, 
And clad in iron burst the ranks of war. 
Or, falling, protomartyr of our cause, 
Die : yet I blame you not so much for fear ; 
Six thousand years of fear have made you that 
From which I would redeem you : but for those 
That stir this hubbub — you and you — I know 
Your faces there in the crowd — to-morrow morn 
We hold a great convention : then shall they 
That love their voices more than duty, learn 
With whom they deal, dismissM in shame to live 
No wiser than their mothers, household stuff. 
Live chattels, mincers of each other's fame. 
Full of weak poison, turnspits for the clown, 
The drunkard's football, laughing-stocks of Time, 
Whose brains are in their hands and in their heels, 
But fit to flaunt, to dress, to dance, to thrum, 
To tramp, to scream, to burnish, and to scour. 
For ever slaves at home and fools abroad.'' 

She, ending, waved her hands : thereat the crowd 
Muttering, dissolved : then with a smile, that look'd 
A stroke of cruel sunshine on the cliff. 
When all the glens are drown'd in azure gloom 
Of thunder-shower, she floated to us and said : 

"You have done well and like a gentleman, 
And like a prince : you have our thanks for all : 



A MEDLEY, 79 

And you look well too in your woman's dress : 
Well have you done and like a gentleman. 
You saved our life : we owe you bitter thanks : 
Better have died and spilt our bones in the flood — 
Then men had said — but now — What hinders 

me 
To take such bloody vengeance on you both? — 
Yet since^our father — Wasps in our good hive, 
You would-be quenchers of the light to be, 
Barbarians, grosser than your native bears — 

would I had his sceptre for one hour ! 

You that have dared to break our bound, and gulPd 
Our servants, wrong'd and lied and thwarted us — 
/wed with thee! /bound by precontract 
Your bride, 5^our bondslave ! not tho' all the gold 
That veins the world were packed to make your 

crown, 
And every spoken tongue should lord you. Sir, 
Your falsehood and yourself are hateful to us : 

1 trample on your offers and on you : 
Begone : we will not look upon you more. 
Here, push them out at gates.'' 

In wrath she spake. 
Then those eight mighty daughters of the plough 
Bent their broad faces toward us and addressed 
Their motion : twice I sought to plead my cause, 
But on my shoulder hung their heavy hands, 
The weight of destiny : so from her face 
They push'd us, down the steps, and thro' the 

court, 
And with grim laughter thrust us out at gates. 



II 



80 7JIE PRINCESS; H 

We cross'd the street and gain'd a petty mound 
Beyond it, whence we saw the hghts and heard 
The voices murmuring. While I Hsten'd, came 
On a sudden the weird seizure and the doubt : 
I seem'd to move among a world of ghosts ; 
The Princess with her monstrous woman-guard, 
The jest and earnest working side by side, 
The cataract and the tumult and the kings 
Were shadows ; and the long fantastic night 
With all its doings had and had not been. 
And all things were and were not. 

This went by 
As strangely as it came, and on my spirits 
Settled a gentle cloud of melancholy ; 
Not long; I shook it off; for spite of doubts 
And sudden ghostly shadowings I was one 
To whom the touch of all mischance but came 
As night to him that sitting on a hill 
Sees the midsummer, midnight, Norway sun 
Set into sunrise ; then we moved away. 



A MEDLEY. 81 



Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums, 

That beat to t^attle where he stands ; 
Thy face across his fancy comes, 

And gives the battle to his hands : 
A moment, while the trumpets blow, 

He sees his brood about thy knee ; 
The next, like fire he meets the foe, 

And strikes him dead for thine and thee. 

So Lilia sang : we thought her half-possess'd, 
She struck such warbling fury thro' the words ; 
And, after, feigning pique at what she calPd 
The raillery, or grotesque, or false sublime — 
Like one that wishes at a dance to change 
The music — clapt her hands and cried for war, 
Or some grand fight to kill and make an end : 
And he that next inherited the tale 
Half turning to the broken statue, said, 
^' Sir Ralph has got your colours : if I prove 
Your knight, and fight your battle, what for me?" 
It chanced, her empty glove upon the tomb 
Lay by her like a model of her hand. 
She took it and she flung it. " Fight '' she said, 
'' And make us all we would be, great and good," 
He knightlike in his cap instead of casque, 
A cap of Tyrol borrowed from the hall, 
Arranged the favour, and assumed the Prince. 



82 THE PRINCESS; 



PART V. 

Now, scarce three paces measured from the mound, 
We stumbled on a stationary voice. 
And " Stand, who goes ? '' " Two from the palace " I. 
"The second two : they wait,**^ he said, "pass on; 
His Highness wakes : ^' and one, that clashed in 

arms. 
By glimmering lanes and walls of canvas led 
Threading the soldier-city, till we heard 
The drowsy folds of our great ensign shake 
From blazonM lions o'er the imperial tent 
Whispers of war. 

Entering, the sudden light 
Dazed me half-blind : I stood and seem'd to hear, 
As in a poplar grove when a light wind wakes 
A lisping of the innumerous leaf and dies, 
Each hissing in his neighbour's ear ; and then 
A strangled titter, out of which there brake 
On all sides, clamouring etiquette to death, 
Unmeasured mirth ; while now the two old kings 
Began to wag their baldness up and down. 
The fresh young captains flashed their glittering 

teeth, 
The huge bush-bearded Barons heaved and blew. 
And slain with laughter rolPd the gilded Squire. 



A MEDLEY. 83 

At length my Sire, his rough cheek wet with tears, 
Panted from weary sides " King, you are free ! 
We did but keep you surety for our son. 
If this be he, — or a draggled mawkin, thou, 
That tends her bristled grunters in the sludge : ^' 
For I was drenchM with ooze, and torn with briers. 
More crumpled than a poppy from the sheath. 
And all one rag, disprinced from head to heel. 
Then some one sent beneath his vaulted palm 
A whisper'd jest to some one near him, '' Look, 
He has been among his shadows." " Satan take 
The old women and their shadows ! (thus the King 
Roar'd) make yourself a man to fight with men. 
Go : Cyril told us all." 

As boys that slink 
From ferule and the trespass-chiding eye. 
Away we stole, and transient in a trice 
From what was left of faded woman-slough 
To sheathing splendours and the golden scale 
Of harness, issued in the sun, that now 
Leapt from the dewy shoulders of the Earth, 
And hit the Northern hills. Here Cyril met us- 
A little shy at first, but by and by 
We twain, with mutual pardon ask'd and given 
For stroke and song, resolder'd peace, whereon 
FollowM his tale. Amazed he fled away 
Thro' the dark land, and later in the night 
Had come on Psyche weeping : " then we fell 
Into your father's hand, and there she lies. 
But will not speak, nor stir." 

He showed a tent 



84 THE PRINCESS; 

A stone-shot off: we entered in, and there 

Among piled arms and rough accoutrements, 

Pitiful sight, wrappM in a soldier^s cloak, 

Like some sweet sculpture draped from head to foot, 

And pushYi by rude hands from its pedestal, 

All her fair length upon the ground she lay : 

And at her head a follower of the camp, 

A charred and wrinkled piece of womanhood, 

Sat watching like a watcher by tlie dead. 

Then Florian knelt, and " Come " he whispered to 

her, 
"Lift up your head, sweet sister: lie not thus. 
What have you done but right? you could not slay 
Me, nor your prince : look up : be comforted : 
Sweet is it to have done the thing one ought. 
When falPn in darker ways.'' And likewise I: 
"Be comforted: have I not lost her too. 
In whose least act abides the nameless charm 
That none has else for me?'' She heard, she 

moved, 
She moan'd, a folded voice ; and up she sat, 
And raised the cloak from brows as pale and smooth 
As those that mourn half-shrouded over death 
In deathless marble. " Her," she said, " my friend — 
Parted from her — betray'd her cause and mine — 
Where shall I breathe ? why kept ye not your faith ? 
O base and bad ! what comfort? none for me ! " 
To whom remorseful Cyril, " Yet I pray 
Take comfort : live, dear lady, for your child !" 
At which she lifted up her voice and cried. 



A MEDLEY, 85 

'* Ah me, my babe, my blossom, ah, my child, 
My one sweet child, whom I shall see no more ! 
For now will cruel Ida keep her back ; 
And either she will die from want of care, 
Or sicken with ill-usage, when they say 
Tne child is hers — for every little fault, 
The child is hers ; and they will beat my girl 
Remembering her mother : O my flower ! 
Or they will take her, they will make her hard, 
And she will pass me by in after-life 
With some cold reverence worse than were she dead 
111 mother that I was to leave her there, 
To lag behind, scared by the cry they made, 
The horror of the shame among them all : 
But I will go and sit beside the doors. 
And make a wild petition night and day, 
Until they hate to hear me like a wind 
Wailing for ever, till they open to me, 
And lay my little blossom at my feet, 
My babe, my sweet Aglaia, my one child : 
And I will take her up and go my way, 
And satisfy my soul with kissing her : 
Ah ! what might that man not deserve of me 
Who gave me back my child? " " Be comforted," 
Said Cyril, "you shall have it:" but again 
She veiPd her brows, and prone she sank, and so 
Like tender things that being caught feign death, 
Spoke not, nor stirr'd. 

By this a murmur ran 
Thro' all the camp and inward raced the scouts 
With rumour of Prince Arac hard at hand. 



86 THE PRINCESS; 

We left her by the woman, and without 

Found the gray kings at parle : and " Look you " cried 

My father " that our compact be fulfill^ : 

You have spoilt this child ; she laughs at you and 

man : 
She wrongs herself, her sex, and me, and him : 
But red-faced war has rods of steel and fire ; 
She yields, or war." 

Then Gama turn'd to me : 
" We fear, indeed, you spent a stormy time 
With our strange girl : and yet they say that still 
You love her. Give us, then, your mind at large : 
How say you, war or not? " 

^' Not war, if possible, 
O king," I said, " lest from the abuse of war, 
The desecrated shrine, the trampled year, 
The smouldering homestead, and the household 

flower 
Torn from the lintel — all the common wrong — 
A smoke go up thro^ which I loom to her 
Three times a monster : now she lightens scorn 
At him that mars her plan, but then would hate 
(And every voice she talked with ratify it, 
And every face she look'd on justify it) 
The general foe. More soluble is this knot, 
By gentleness than war. I want her love. 
What were I nigher this altho' we dash'd 
Your cities into shards with catapults. 
She would not love ; — or brought her chainM, a 

slave. 
The lifting of whose eyelash is my lord, 



A MEDLEY. 87 

Not ever would she love ; but brooding turn 
The book of scorn, till all my flitting chance 
Were caught within the record of her wrongs, 
And crush'd to death : and rather, Sire, than this 
I would the old God of war himself were dead. 
Forgotten, rusting on his iron hills, 
Rotting on some wild shore with ribs of wreck, 
Or like an old-world mammoth bulkM in ice, 
Not to be molten out." 

And roughly spake 
My father, " Tut, you know them not, the girls. 
Boy, when I hear you prate I almost think 
That idiot legend credible. Look you, Sir ! 
Man is the hunter ; woman is his game : 
The sleek and shining creatures of the chase, 
We hunt them for the beauty of their skins ; 
They love us for it, and we ride them down. 
Wheedling and siding with them ! Out ! for shame ! 
Boy, there's no rose that's half so dear to them 
As he that does the thing they dare not do, 
Breathing and sounding beauteous battle, comes 
With the air of the trumpet round him, and leaps in 
Among the women, snares them by the score 
Flatter'd and fluster'd, wins, tho' dash'd with death 
He reddens what he kisses : thus I won 
Your mother, a good mother, a good wife, 
Worth winning; but this firebrand — gentleness 
To such as her ! if Cyril spake her true, 
To catch a dragon in a cherry net, 
To trip a tigress with a gossamer, 
Were wisdom to it." 



88 THE PRINCESS; 

" Yea but Sire/' I cried, 
"Wild natures need wise curbs. The soldier? No 
What dares not Ida do that she should prize 
The soldier? I beheld her, when she rose 
The yesternight, and storming in extremes, 
Stood for her cause, and flung defiance down 
Gagelike to man, and had not shunn'd the death, 
No, not the soldier's : yet I hold her, king. 
True woman : but you clash them all in one, 
That have as many differences as we. 
The violet varies from the lily as far 
As oak from elm : one loves the soldier, one 
The silken priest of peace, one this, one that, 
And some unworthily; their sinless faith, 
A maiden moon that sparkles on a sty. 
Glorifying clown and satyr ; whence they need 
More breadth of culture: is not Ida right? 
They worth it? truer to the law within? 
Severer in the logic of a life ? 
Twice as magnetic to sweet influences 
Of earth and heaven? and she of whom you speak, 
My mother, looks as whole as some serene 
Creation minted in the golden moods 
Of sovereign artists ; not a thought, a touch. 
But pure as lines of green that streak the white 
Of the first snowdrop's inner leaves; I say, 
Not like the piebald miscellany, man. 
Bursts of great heart and slips in sensual mire. 
But whole and one : and take them all-in-all. 
Were we ourselves but half as good, as kind, 
As truthful, much that Ida claims as right 



A MEDLEY. 89 

Had ne'er been mooted, but as frankly theirs 
As dues of Nature. To our point : not war : 
Lest I lose all." 

" Nay, nay, you spake but sense " 
Said Gama. " We remember love ourself 
In our sweet youth ; we did not rate him then 
This red-hot iron to be shaped with blows. 
You talk almost like Ida : she can talk ; 
And there is something in it as you say: 
But you talk kindlier : we esteem you for it. — 
He seems a gracious and a gallant Prince, 
I would he had our daughter : for the rest. 
Our own detention, why, the causes weighed, 
Fatherly fears — you used us courteously — 
We would do much to gratify your Prince — 
We pardon it ; and for your ingress here 
Upon the skirt and fringe of our fair land, 
You did but come as goblins in the night, 
Nor in the furrow broke the ploughman's head. 
Nor burnt the grange, nor buss'd the milking-maid, 
Nor robb'd the farmer of his bowl of cream : 
But let your Prince (our royal word upon it, 
He comes back safe) ride with us to our lines, 
And speak with Arac : Arac's word is thrice 
As ours with Ida : something may be done — 
I know not what — and ours shall see us friends. 
You, likewise, our late guests, if so you will, 
Follow us: who knows? we four may build some 

plan 
Foursquare to opposition." 

Here he reach'd 



90 THE PRINCESS: 

White hands of farewell to my sire, who growl'd 
An answer which, half-muffled in his beard, 
Let so much out as gave us leave to go. 

Then rode we with the old king across the lawns 
Beneath huge trees, a thousand rings of Spring 
In every bole, a song on every spray 
Of birds that piped their Valentines, and woke 
Desire in me to infuse my tale of love 
In the old king's ears, who promised help, and oozed 
Ail o'er with honey'd answer as we rode 
And blossom-fragrant slipt the heavy dews 
Gather'd by night and peace, with each light air 
On our maiPd heads : but other thoughts than Peace 
Burnt in us, when we saw the embattled squares, 
And squadrons of the Prince, trampling the flowers 
With clamour : for among them rose a cry 
As if to greet the king ; they made a halt ; 
The horses yelPd; they clash'd their arms; the drum 
Beat ; merrily-blowing shrilPd the martial fife ; 
And in the blast and bray of the long horn 
And serpent-throated bugle, undulated 
The banner : anon to meet us lightly pranced 
Three captains out ; nor ever had I seen 
Such thews of men : the midmost and the highest 
Was Arac : all about his motion clung 
The shadow of his sister, as the beam 
Of the East, that play'd upon them, made them 

glance 
Like those three stars of the airy Giant's zone, 
That glitter burnish'd by the frosty dark ; 



li 



A MEDLEY. 91 

And as the fiery Sirius alters hue, 

And bickers into red and emerald, shone 

Their morions, wash'd with morning, as they came. 

And I that prated peace,' when first I heard 
War-music, felt the blind wildbeast of force, 
Whose home is in the sinews of a man. 
Stir in me as to strike : then took the king 
His three broad sons ; with now a wandering hand 
And now a pointed finger, told them all : 
A common lisfht of smiles at our diso:uise 
Broke from their lips, and, ere the windy jest 
Had laboured down within his ample lungs. 
The genial giant, Arac, rolPd himself 
Thrice in the saddle, then burst out in words. 

" Our land invaded, 'sdeath ! and he himself 
Your captive, yet my father wills not war : 
And, 'sdeath ! myself, what care I, war or no? 
But then this question of your troth remains : 
And there's a downright honest meaning in her; 
She flies too high, she flies too high ! and yet 
She ask'd but space and fairplay for her scheme ; 
She prest and prest it on me — I myself, 
What know I of these things? but, life and soul ! 
I thought her half-right talking of her wrongs ; 
I say she flies too high, 'sdeath ! what of that? 
I take her for the flower of womankind, 
And so I often told her, right or wrong, 
And, Prince, she can be sweet to those she loves, 
And, right or wrong, I care not : this is all, 



92 THE PRINCESS; 

I stand upon her side : she made me swear it — 
'Sdeath — and with solemn rites by candle-light — 
Swear by St. something — I forget her name — 
Her that talkM down the fifty wisest men ; 
She was a princess too ; and so I swore. 
Come, this is all ; she will not : waive your claim : 
If not, the foughten field, what else, at once 
Decides it, \sdeath ! against my father's will." 

I lagg'd in answer loth to render up 
My precontract, and loth by brainless war 
To cleave the rift of difference deeper yet ; 
Till one of those two brothers, half aside 
And fingering at the hair about his lip, 
To prick us on to combat " Like to like ! 
The woman's garment hid the woman's heart." 
A taunt that clench'd his purpose like a blow ! 
For fiery-short was Cyril's counter-scoif, 
And sharp I answer'd, touch'd upon the point 
Where idle boys are cowards to their shame, 
"Decide it here : why not? we are three to three." 

Then spake the third " But three to three ? no 
more ? 
No more, and in our noble sister's cause? 
More, more, for honour: every captain waits 
Hungry for honour, angry for his king. 
More, more, some fifty on a side, that each 
May breathe himself, and quick ! by overthrow 
Of these or those, the question settled die." 



A MEDLEY. 91 

"Yea," answer'd I, "for this wild wreath of air, 
This flake of rainbow flying on the highest 
Foam of men's deeds — this honour, if ye will. 
It needs must be for honour if at all : 
Since, what decision? if we fail, we fail, 
And if we win, we fail : she would not keep 
Her compact." "• 'Sdeath ! but we will send to her," 
Said Arac, " worthy reasons why she should 
Bide by this issue : let our missive thro', 
And you shall have her answer by the word." 

" Boys ! " shriek'd the old king, but vainlier than 
a hen 
To her false daughters in the pool ; for none 
Regarded ; neither seem'd there more to say : 
Back rode we to my father's camp, and found 
He thrice had sent a herald to the gates. 
To learn if Ida yet would cede our claim, 
Or by denial flush her ^bbling wells 
With her own people's life : three times he went : 
The first, he blew and blew, but none appear'd : 
He batter'd at the doors ; none came : the next, 
An awful voice within had warn'd him thence : 
The third, and those eight daughters of the plough 
Came sallying thro' the gates, and caught his hair, 
And so belabour'd him on rib and cheek 
They made him wild : not less one glance he caught 
Thro' open doors of Ida station'd there 
Unshaken, clinging to her purpose, firm 
Tho' compass'd by two armies and the noise 
Of arms ; and s-tanding like a stately Pine 



94 THE PRINCESS ; 

Set in a cataract on an island-crag, 
When storm is on the heights, and right and left 
SuckM from the dark heart of the long hills roll 
The torrents, dashed to the vale : and yet her will 
Bred will in me to overcome it or fall. 

But when I told the king that I was pledged 
To fight in tourney for my bride, he clash'd 
His iron palms together with a cry ; 
Himself would tilt it out among the lads : 
But overborne by all his bearded lords 
With reasons drawn from age and state, perforce 
He yielded, wroth and red, with fierce demur : 
And many a bold knight started up in heat. 
And sware to combat for my claim till death. 

All on this side the palace ran the field 
Flat to the garden-wall : and likewise here, 
Above the garden's glowing blossom-belts, 
A columnM entry shone and marble stairs. 
And great bronze valves, emboss'd with Tomyris 
And what she did to Cyrus after fight, 
But now fast barr'd : so here upon the flat 
All that long morn the lists were hammer'd up, 
And all that morn the heralds to and fro. 
With message and defiance, went and came ; 
Last, Ida'3 answer, in a royal hand, 
But shaken here and there, and rolling words 
Oration-like. I kiss'd it and I read. 

" O brother, you have known the pangs we felt, 
What heats of indignation when we heard 



A MEDLEY. 95 

Of those that iron-cramp' d their women's feet ; 

Of lands in which at the altar the poor bride 

Gives her harsh groom for bridal-gift a scourge ; 

Of living hearts that crack within the fire 

Where smoulder their dead despots ; and of those, — • 

Mothers, — that, all prophetic pity, fling 

Their pretty maids in the running flood, and swoops 

The vulture, beak and talon, at the heart 

Made for all noble motion : and I saw 

That equal baseness lived in sleeker times 

With smoother men : the old leaven leaven'd all : 

Millions of throats would bawl for civil rights, 

No woman named : therefore I set my face 

Against all men, and lived but for mine own. 

Far off from men I built a fold for them : 

I stored it full of rich memorial : 

I fenced it round with gallant institutes, 

And biting laws to scare the beasts of prey 

And prospered ; till a rout of saucy boys 

Brake on us at our books, and marr'd our peace, 

Mask'd like our maids» blustering I know not what 

Of insolence and love, some pretext held 

Of baby troth, invalid, since my will 

SeaPd not the bond — the striplings ! — for their 

sport ! — 
I tamed my leopards : shall I not tame these? 
Or you? or I? for since you think me touched 
In honour — what, I would not aught of false — 
Is not our cause pure ? and whereas I know 
Your prowess, Arac, and what mother's blood 
You draw from, fight; you failing, I abide 



96 THE PRINCESS; 

What end soever : fail you will not. Still 

Take not his life : he risk'd it for my own ; 

His mother lives : yet whatsoe'er you do, 

Fight and fight well ; strike and strike home. O 

dear 
Brothers, the woman's Angel guards you, you 
The sole men to be mingled with our cause, 
The sole men we shall prize in the after-time, 
Your very armour hallow'd, and your statues 
Rear'd, sung to, when, this gad-fly brushed aside, 
We plant a solid foot into the Time, 
And mould a generation strong to move 
With claim on claim from right to right, till she 
Whose name is yoked with children's, know her- 
self; 
And Knowledge in our own land make her free, 
And, ever following those two crowned twins, 
Commerce and conquest, shower the fiery grain 
Of freedom broadcast over all that orbs 
Between the Northern and the Southern morn." 

Then came a postscript dash'd across the rest. 
*^ See that there be no traitors in your camp : 
We seem a nest of traitors — none to trust 
Since our arms faiPd — this Egypt-plague of men ! 
Almost our maids were better at their homes, 
Than thus man-girdled here : indeed I think 
Our chiefest comfort is the little child 
Of one unworthy mother ; which she left : 
She shall not have it back : the child shall grow 
To prize the authentic mother of her mind. 



A MEDLEY. 97 

I took it for an hour in mine own bed 
This morning : there the tender orphan hands 
Felt at my heart, and seemM to charm from thence 
The wrath I nursed against the world : farewell." 

I ceased ; he said, " Stubborn, but she may sit 
Upon a king's right hand in thunder-storms. 
And breed up warriors ! See now, tho' yourself 
Be dazzled by the wildfire Love to sloughs 
That swallow common sense, the spindling king, 
This Gama swamp'd in lazy tolerance. 
When the man wants weight, the woman takes 

it up, 
And topples down the scales ; but this is fixt 
As are the roots of earth and base of all ; 
Man for the field and woman for the hearth : 
Man for the sword and for the needle she : 
Man with the head and woman with the heart : 
Man to command and woman to obey ; 
All else confusion. Look you ! the gray mare 
Is ill to live with, when her whinny shrills 
From tile to scullery, and her small goodman 
Shrinks in his arm-chair while the fires of Hell 
Mix with his hearth : but you — she's yet a colt — 
Take, break her: strongly groom'd and straitly 

curb'd 
She might not rank with those detestable 
That let the bantling scald at home, and brawl 
Their rights or wrongs like potherbs in the street. 
They say she's comely ; there's the fairer chance : 
/ like her none the less for rating at her ! 



98 THE PRINCESS; 

Besides, the woman wed is not as we, 
But suffers change of frame. A lusty brace 
Of twins may weed her of her folly. Boy, 
The bearing and the training of a child 
Is woman's wisdom." 

Thus the hard old king : 
I took my leave, for it was nearly noon : 
I pored upon her letter which I held, 
And on the little clause " take not his life : " 
I mused on that wild morning in the woods, 
And on the " Follow, follow, thou shalt win : " 
I thought on all the wrathful king had said, 
And how the strange betrothment was to end : 
Then I rememberM that burnt sorcerer's curse 
That one should fight with shadows and shoi 

fall; 
And like a flash the weird affection came : 
King, camp and college turned to hollow shows ; 
I seem'd to move in old memorial tilts, 
And doing battle with forgotten ghosts, 
To dream myself the shadow of a dream : 
And ere I woke it was the point of noon, 
The lists were ready. Empanoplied and plumed 
We entered in, and waited, fifty there 
Opposed to fifty, till the trumpet blared 
At the barrier like a wild horn in a land 
Of echoes, and a moment, and once more 
The trumpet, and again : at which the storm 
Of galloping hoofs bare on the ridge of spears 
And riders front to front, until they closed 
In conflict with the crash of shivering points, 



A MEDLEY. 99 

And thunder. Yet it seem'd a dream, I dreamed 

Of fighting. On his haunches rose the steed, 

And into fiery splinters leapt the lance, 

And out of stricken helmets sprang the fire. 

Part sat like rocks : part reePd but kept their seats : 

Part rolPd on the earth and rose again and drew : 

Part stumbled mixt with floundering horses. Down 

From those two bulks at Arac's side, and down 

From Arac's arm, as from a giant's flail, 

The large blows rain'd, as here and everywhere 

He rode the mellay, lord of the ringing lists, 

And all the plain, — brand, mace, and shaft, and 

shield — 
Shock'd, like an iron-clanging anvil bang'd 
With hammers ; till I thought, can this be he 
From Gama's dwarfish loins? if this be so, 
The mother makes us most — and in my dream 
I glanced aside, and saw the palace-front 
Alive with fluttering scarfs and ladies' eyes. 
And highest, among the statues, statuelike, 
Between a cymbaPd Miriam and a Jael, 
With Psyche's babe, was Ida watching us, 
A single band of gold about her hair. 
Like a Saint's glory up in heaven : but she 
No saint — inexorable — no tenderness — 
Too hard, too cruel : yet she sees me fight, 
Yea, let her see me fall ! with that I drave 
Among the thickest and bore down a Prince, 
And Cyril, one. Yea, let me make my dream 
All that I would. But that large-moulded man, 
His visage all agrin as at a wake, 



100 THE PRINCESS; 

Made at me thro' the press, and, staggering back 
With stroke on stroke the horse and horseman, 

came 
As comes a pillar of electric cloud, 
Flaying the roofs and sucking up the drains, 
And shadowing down the champaign till it strikes 
On a wood, and takes, and breaks, and cracks, and 

splits, 
And twists the grain with such a roar that Earth 
Reels, and the herdsmen cry ; for everything 
Gave way before him : only Florian, he 
That loved me closer than his own right eye, 
Thrust in between ; but Arac rode him down : 
And Cyril seeing it, pushed against the Prince, 
With Psyche's colour round his helmet, tough, 
Strong, supple, sinew-corded, apt at arms ; 
But tougher, heavier, stronger, he that smote 
And threw him : last I spurr'd ; I felt my veins 
Stretch with fierce heat ; a moment hand to hand. 
And sword to sword, and horse to horse we hung, 
Till I struck out and shouted ; the blade glanced, 
I did but shear a feather, and dream and truth 
Flow'd from me ; darkness closed me ; and I fell. 



r 



A MEDLEY, 101 



Home they brought her warrior dead: 
She nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry : 

All her maidens, watching, said, 
" She must weep or she will die." 

Then they praised him, soft and low, 
Call'd him worthy to be loved, 

Truest friend and noblest foe ; 

Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 

Stole a maiden from her place, 
Lightly to the warrior stept. 

Took tlie face-cloth from the face ; 
Yet she neither moved nor wept. 

Rose a nurse of ninety years. 
Set his child upon her knee — 

Like summer tempest came her tears ■ 
" Sweet my child, 1 live for thee." 






f \ 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY, 103 



PART VI. 

My dream had never died or lived again. 
As in some mystic middle state I lay ; 
Seeing I saw not, hearing not I heard : 
Tho\ if I saw not, yet they told me all 
So often that I speak as having seen. 

For so it seem'd, or so they said to me, 
That all things grew more tragic and more strange ; 
That when our side was vanquished and my cause 
For ever lost, there went up a great cry, 
The Prince is slain. My father heard and ran 
In on the lists, and there unlaced my casque 
And groveird on my body, and after him 
Came Psyche, sorrowing for Aglaia. 

But high upon the palace Ida stood 
With Psyche's babe in arm : there on the roofs 
Like that great dame of Lapidoth she sang. 

" Our enemies have faU'n, have fall'n : the seed, 
The little seed they laugh'd at in the dark, 
Has risen and cleft the soil, and grown a bulk 
Of spanless girth, that lays on every side 
A thousand arms and rushes to the Sun. 



104 THE PRINCESS; 

" Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n : they came ; 
The leaves were wet with women's tears : they heard 
A noise of songs they would not understand : 
They mark'd it with the red cross to the fall, 
And would have strown it, and are fall'n themselves. 

"Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: they came, 
The woodmen with their axes: lo the tree! 
But we will make it faggots for the hearth, 
And shape it plank and beam for roof and floor, 
And boats and bridges for the use of men. 

" Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: they struck; 
With their own blows they hurt themselves, nor knew 
There dwelt an iron nature in the grain : 
The glittering axe was broken in their arms, 
Their arms were shatter'd to the shoulder blade. 

" Our enemies have fall'n, but this shall grow 
A night of Summer from the heat, a breadth 
Of Autumn, dropping fruits of power : and roll'd 
With music in the growing breeze of Time, 
The tops shall strike from star to star, the fangs 
Shall move the stony bases of the world. 

*' And now, O maids, behold our sanctuary- 
Is violate, our laws broken : fear we not 
To break them more in their behoof, whose arms 
Championed our cause and won it with a day 
Blanch'd in our annals, and perpetual feast, 
When dames and heroines of the golden year 
Shall strip a hundred hollows bare of Spring, 
To rain an April of ovation round 
Their statues, borne aloft, the three : but come, 
We will be liberal, since our rights are won. 



A MEDLEY. 105 

Let them not lie in the tents with coarse mankind, 
111 nurses ; but descend, and proffer these 
The brethren of our blood and cause, that there 
Lie bruised and maimM, the tender ministries 
Of female hands and hospitality." 

She spoke, and with the babe yet in her arms. 
Descending, burst the great bronze valves, and 

led 
A hundred maids in train across the Park. 
Some cowPd, and some bare-headed, on they came, 
Their feet in flowers, her loveliest : by them went 
The enamourM air sighing, and on their curls 
From the high tree the blossom wavering fell, 
And over them the tremulous isles of light 
Slided, they moving under shade : but Blanche 
At distance followed : so they came : anon 
Thro' open field into the lists they wound 
Timorously ; and as the leader of the herd 
That holds a stately fretwork to the Sun, 
And followed up by a hundred airy does, 
Steps with a tender foot, light as on air, 
The lovely, lordly creature floated on 
To where her wounded brethren lay ; there stay'd; 
Knelt on one knee, — the child on one, — and prest 
Their hands, and calFd them dear deliverers, 
And happy warriors, and immortal names. 
And said " You shall not He in the tents but here. 
And nursed by those for whom you fought, and 

served 
With female hands and hospitality." 



106 THE PRINCESS; 

Then, whether moved by this, or was it chance, 
She past my way. Up started from my side 
The old lion, glaring with his whelpless eye, 
Silent ; but when she saw me lying stark, 
Dishelm'd and mute, and motionlessly pale, 
Cold ev'n to her, she sigh'd ; and when she saw 
The haggard father's face and reverend beard 
Of grisly twine, all dabbled with the blood 
Of his own son, shudderM, a twitch of pain 
Tortured her mouth, and o'er her forehead past 
A shadow, and her hue changed, and she said : 
" He saved my life : my brother slew him for it." 
No more : at which the king in bitter scorn 
Drew from my neck the painting and the tress, 
And held them up : she saw them, and a day 
Rose from the distance on her memory. 
When the good Queen, her mother, shore the tress 
With kisses, ere the days of Lady Blanche : 
And then once more she look'd at my pale face : 
Till understanding all the foolish work 
Of Fancy, and the bitter close of all. 
Her iron will was broken in her mind ; 
Her noble heart was molten in her breast ; 
She bow'd, she set the child on the earth ; she laid 
A feeling finger on my brows, and presently 
" O Sire," she said, " he lives : he is not dead : 
O let me have him with my brethren here 
In our own palace : we will tend on him 
Like one of these ; if so, by any means. 
To lighten this great clog of thanks, that make 
Our progress falter to the woman's goal." 



A MEDLEY. 107 

She said : but at the happy word ** he lives '' 
My father stoop'd, re-fatherM o'er my wounds. 
So those two foes above my fallen life, 
With brow to brow like night and evening mixt 
fheir dark and gray, while Psyche ever stole 
A little nearer, till the babe that by us, 
Half-lapt in glowing gauze and golden brede, 
Lay like a new-falPn meteor on the grass, 
Uncared for, spied its mother and began 
A blind and babbling laughter, and to dance 
Its body, and reach its fatling innocent arms 
And lazy lingering fingers. She the appeal 
Brook'd not, but clamouring out ''Mine — mine — 

not yours, 
It is not yours, but mine : give me the child " 
Ceased all on tremble : piteous was the cry : 
So stood the unhappy mother open-mouth'd. 
And turn'd each face her way : wan was her cheek 
With hollow watch, her blooming mantle torn, 
Red grief and mother's hunger in her eye. 
And down dead-heavy sank her curls, and half 
The sacred mother's bosom, panting, burst 
The laces toward her babe ; but she nor cared 
Nor knew it, clamouring on, till Ida heard, 
Look'd up, and rising slowly from me, stood 
Erect and silent, striking with her glance 
The mother, me, the child ; but he that lay 
Beside us, Cyril, batter'd as he was, 
TraiPd himself up on one knee : then he drew 
Her robe to meet his lips, and down she look'd 
At the arm'd man sideways, pitying as it scem'd, 



108 THE PRINCESS; 

Or self-involved ; but when she learnt his face, 

Remembering his ill-omenM song, arose 

Once more thro' all her height, and o'er him grew 

Tall as a figure lengthened on the sand 

When the tide ebbs in sunshine, and he said : 



'* O fair and strong and terrible ! Lioness 
That with your long locks play the Lion's mane ! 
But Love and Nature, these are two more terrible 
And stronger. See, your foot is on o-ur necks. 
We vanquished, you the Victor of your will. 
What would you more? give her the child ! remain 
Orb'd in your isolation : he is dead, 
Or all as dead : henceforth we let you be : 
Win you the hearts of women ; and beware 
Lest, where you seek the common love of these, 
The common hate with the revolving wheel 
Should drag you down, and some great Nemesis 
Break from a darkened future, crown'd with fire. 
And tread you out for ever : but howsoe'er 
Fix'd in yourself, never in your own arms 
To hold your own, deny not hers to her. 
Give her the child ! O if, I say, you keep 
One pulse that beats true woman, if you loved 
The breast that fed or arm that dandled you, 
Or own one port of sense not flint to prayer, 
Give her the child ! or if you scorn to lay it, 
Yourself, in hands so lately claspt with yours, 
Or speak to her, your dearest, her one fault 
The tenderness, not yours, that could not kill, 
Give me it: /will give it her.'' 



A MEDLEY. 109 

He said : 
At first her eye with slow dilation rolPd 
Dry flame, she listening; after sank and sank 
And, into mournful twilight mellowing, dwelt 
Full on the child ; she took it : '^ Pretty bud ! 
Lily of the vale ! half-openM bell of the woods ! 
Sole comfort of my dark hour, when a world 
Of traitorous friend and broken system made 
No purple in the distance, mystery. 
Pledge of a love not to be mine, farewell; 
These men are hard upon us as of old, 
We two must part : and yet how fain was I 
To dream thy cause embraced in mine, to think 
I might be something to thee, when I felt 
Thy helpless warmth about my barren breast 
In the dead prime : but may thy mother prove 
As true to thee as false, false, false to me ! 
And, if thou needs must bear the yoke, I wish it 
Gentle as freedom " — here she kiss'd it : then — 
" All good go with thee ! take it, Sir," and so 
Laid the soft babe in his hard-mailed hands. 
Who turn'd half-round to Psyche as she sprang 
To meet it, with an eye that swum in thanks ; 
Then felt it sound and whole from head to foot, 
And huggM and never huggM it close enough, 
And in her hunger mouth'd and mumbled it, 
And hid her bosom with it ; after that 
Put on more calm and added suppliantly: 

'' We two were friends : I go to mine own land 
For ever : find some other : as for me 



110 THE PRINCESS; 

I scarce am fit for your great plans : yet speak to 

me, 
Say one soft word and let me part forgiven."" 

But Ida spoke not, rapt upon the child. 
Then Arac. " Ida — 's death ! you blame the man ; 
You wrong yourselves — the woman is so hard 
Upon the woman. Come, a grace to me ! 
I am your warrior : I and mine have fought 
Your battle : kiss her ; take her hand, she weeps : 
'Sdeath ! I would sooner fight thrice o^er than see 
it.'' 

But Ida spoke not, gazing on the ground. 
And reddening in the furrows of his chin. 
And moved beyond his custom, Gama said : 

" IVe heard that there is iron in the blood, 
And I believe it. Not one word.^^ not one? 
Whence drew you this steel temper? not from me, 
Not from your mother, now a saint with saints. 
She said you had a heart — I heard her say it — 
' Our Ida has a heart' — just ere she died — 
' But see that some one with authority 
Be near her still ' and I — I sought for one — 
All people said she had authority — 
The Lady Blanche : much profit ! Not one word ; 
No ! tho' your father sues : see how you stand 
Stiff as Lot's wife, and all the good knights maim'd, 
I trust that there is no one hurt to death, 
For your wild whim : and was it then for this, 
Was it for this w^e gave our palace up. 



A MEDLEY. Ill 

Where we withdrew from summer heats and state, 
And had our wine and chess beneath the planes, 
And many a pleasant hour with her that's gone, 
Ere you were born to vex us ? Is it kind ? 
Speak to her I say : is this not she of whom, 
When first she came, all flushM you said to me 
Now had you got a friend of your own age, 
Now could you share your thought ; now should 

men see 
Two women faster welded in one love 
Than pairs of wedlock ; she you walked with, she 
You talked with, whole nights long, up in the tower, 
Of sine and arc, spheroid and azimuth, 
And right ascension, Heaven knows what ; and now 
A word, but one, one little kindly word. 
Not one to spare her : out upon you, flint ! 
You love nor her, nor me, nor any ; nay, 
You shame your mother's judgment too. Not one ? 
You will not? well — no heart have you, or such 
As fancies like the vermin in a nut 
Have fretted all to dust and bitterness.'" 
So said the small king moved beyond his wont. 

But Ida stood nor spoke, drained of her force 
By many a varying influence and so long. 
Down thro' her limbs a drooping languor wept : 
Her head a little bent ; and on her mouth 
A doubtful smile dwelt like a clouded moon 
In a still water : then brake out my sire. 
Lifting his grim head from my wounds. " O you. 
Woman, whom we thought woman even now, 



112 THE PRINCESS; 

And were half fooFd to let you tend our son, 
Because he might have wishM it — but we see 
The accomplice of your madness unforgiven, 
And think that you might mix his draught with death, 
When your skies change again : the rougher hand 
Is safer : on to the tents : take up the Prince." 

He rose, and while each ear was prick'd to attend 
A tempest, thro' the cloud that dimm'd her broke 
A genial warmth and light once more, and shone 
Thro' glittering drops on her sad friend. 

" Come hither. 

Psyche," she cried out, " embrace me, come, 
Quick while I melt ; make reconcilement sure 
With one that cannot keep her mind an hour : 
Come to the hollow heart they slander so ! 
Kiss and be friends, like children being chid! 
/ seem no more : / want forgiveness too : 

1 should have had to do with none but maids, 
That have no links with men. Ah false but dear, 
Dear traitor, too much loved, why? — why.^ — Yet 

see. 
Before these kings we embrace you yet once more 
With all forgiveness, all oblivion, 
And trust, not love, you less. 

And now, O sire, 
Grant me your son, to nurse, to wait upon him, 
Like mine own brother. For my debt to him, 
This nightmare weight of gratitude, I know it; 
Taunt me no more : yourself and yours shall have 
Free adit ; we will scatter all our maids 



I 



A MEDLEY. 113 

Till happier times each to her proper hearth : 
What use to keep them here — now? grant my 

prayer. 
Help, father, brother, help ; speak to the king : 
Thaw this male nature to some touch of that 
Which kills me with myself, and drags me down 
From my iixt height to mob me up with all 
The soft and milky rabble of womankind, 
Poor weakling ev'n as they are.'' 

Passionate tears 
Followed : the king replied not : Cyril said : 
" Your brother, Lady, — Florian, — ask for him 
Of your great head — for he is wounded too — 
That you may tend upon him with the prince." 
" Ay so," said Ida with a bitter smile, 
"Our laws are broken: let him enter too." 
Then Violet, she that sang the mournful song, 
And had a cousin tumbled on the plain. 
Petitioned too for him. "Ay so," she said, 
" I stagger in the stream : I cannot keep 
My heart an eddy from the brawling hour: 
We break our laws with ease, but let it be." 
" Ay so?" said Blanche : "Amazed am I to hear 
Your Highness : but your Highness breaks with ease 
The law your Highness did not make : 'twas I. 
I had been wedded wife, I knew mankind. 
And block'd them out : but these men came to woo 
Your Highness — verily I think to win." 

So she, and turn'd askance a wintry eye : 
But Ida with a voice, that like a bell 



114 THE PRINCESS ; 

Toird by an earthquake in a trembling tower, 
Rang ruin, answer'd full of grief and scorn. 

" Fling our doors wide ! all, all, not one, but all. 
Not only he, but by my mother's soul, 
Whatever man lies wounded, friend or foe, 
Shall enter, if he will. Let our girls flit, 
Till the storm die ! but had you stood by us, 
The roar that breaks the Pharos from his base 
Had left us rock. She fain would sting us too, 
But shall not. Pass, and mingle with your likes. 
We brook no further insult but are gone." 

She turn'd : the very nape of her white neck 
Was rosed with indignation : but the Prince 
Her brother came ; the king her father charm'd 
Her wounded soul with words : nor did mine own 
Refuse her proffer, lastly gave his hand. 

Then us they lifted up, dead weights, and bare 
Straight to the doors : to them the doors gave way 
Groaning, and in the Vestal entry shriek'd 
The viro:in marble under iron heels : 
And on they moved and gainM the hall, and there 
Rested : but great the crush was, and each base. 
To left and right, of those tall columns drown'd 
In silken fluctuation and the swarm 
Of female whisperers: at the further end ^ 
Was Ida by the throne, the two great cats 
Close by her, like supporters on a shield, 
Bow-back'd with fear : but in the centre stood 
The common men with rolling eyes ; amazed 



A MEDLEY. 115 

They glared upon the women, and aghast 

The women stared at these, all silent, save 

When armour clash'd or jingled, while the day, 

Descending, struck athwart the hall, and shot 

A flying s^Dlendour out of brass and steel 

That o'er the statues leapt from head to head, 

Now fired an angry Pallas on the helm, 

Now set a wrathful Dian's moon on flame, 

And now and then an echo started up, 

And shuddering fled from room to room, and died 

Of fright in far apartments. 

Then tlie voice 
Of Ida sounded, issuing ordinance : 
And me they bore up the broad stairs, and thro' 
The long-laid galleries past a hundred doors 
To one deep chamber shut from sound, and due 
To languid limbs and sickness ; left me in it ; 
And others otherwhere they laid ; and all 
That afternoon a sound arose of hoof 
And chariot, many a maiden passing home 
Till happier times ; but some were left of those 
Held sagest, and the great lords out and in, 
From those two hosts that lay beside the walls, 
WalkM at their will, and everything was changed. 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY, 117 



Ask me no more : the moon may draw the sea ; 

The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape 
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape ; 

But O too fond, when have I answer'd thee? 
Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more : what answer should I give? 
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye : 
Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die ! 

Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live ; 
Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more : thy fate and mine are seal'd : 
I strove against the stream and all in vain : 
Let the great river take me to the main : 

No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield ; 
Ask me no more. 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY, 119 



PART VII. 

So was their sanctuary violated, 

So their fair college turn'd to hospital ; 

At first with all confusion : by and by 

Sweet order lived again with other laws : 

A kindher influence reign'd ; and everywhere 

Low voices with the ministering hand 

Hung round the sick : the maidens came, they 

talked. 
They sang, they read : till she not fair began 
To gather light, and she that was, became 
Her former beauty treble ; and to and fro 
With books, with flowers, with Angel offices, 
Like creatures native unto gracious act. 
And in their own clear element, they moved. 

But sadness on the soul of Ida fell, 
And hatred of her weakness, blent with shame. 
Old studies faiPd ; seldom she spoke : but oft 
Clomb to the roofs, and gazed alone for hours 
On that disastrous leaguer, swarms of men 
Darkening her female field : void was her use. 
And she as one that climbs a peak to gaze 
O'er land and main, and sees a great black cloud 
Drag inward from the deeps, a wall of night, 



120 THE PRINCESS; 

Blot out the slope of sea from verge to shore, 
And suck the blinding splendour from the sand, 
And quenching lake by lake and tarn by tarn 
Expunge the world : so fared she gazing there ; 
So blackened all her world in secret, blank 
And waste it seem'd and vain ; till down she came, 
And found fair peace once more among the sick. 

And twilight dawnM ; and morn by morn the 

lark 
Shot up and shrilPd in flickering gyres, but I 
Lay silent in the muffled cage of life : 
And twilight gloom'd ; and broader-grown the 

bowers 
Drew the great night into themselves, and Heaven, 
Star after star, arose and fell ; but I, 
Deeper than those weird doubts could reach me, lay 
Quite sunderM from the moving Universe, 
Nor knew what eye was on me, nor the hand 
That nursed me, more than infants in their sleep. 

But Psyche tended Florian : with her oft, 
Melissa came * for Blanche had gone, but left 
Her child among us, willing she should keep 
Court-favour : here and there the small bright head, 
A light of healing, glanced about the couch. 
Or thro^ the parted silks the tender face 
Peep'd, shining in upon the wounded man 
With blush and smile, a medicine in themselves 
To wile the length from languorous hours, and draw 
The sting from pain ; nor seem'd it strange that soon 



\ 



A MEDLEY. 121 

He rose up whole, and those fair charities 
Joined at her side ; nor stranger seem'd that hearts 
So gentle, so employed, should close in love, 
Than when two dewdrops on the petal shake 
To the same sweet air, and tremble deeper down, 
And slip at once all-fragrant into one. 

Less prosperously the second suit obtained 
At first with Psyche. Not tho' Blanche had sworn 
That after that dark night among the fields 
She needs must wed him for her own good name ; 
Not tho' he built upon the babe restored ; 
Nor tho' she liked him, yielded she, but fearM 
To incense the Head once more ; till on a day 
When Cyril pleaded, Ida came behind 
Seen but of Psyche : on her foot she hung 
A moment, and she heard, at which her face 
A little flushM, and she past on ; but each 
Assumed from thence a half-consent involved 
In stillness, plighted troth, and were at peace. 

Nor only these : Love in the sacred halls 
Held carnival at will, and flying struck 
With showers of random sweet on maid and man. 
Nor did her father cease to press my claim, 
Nor did mine own now reconciled ; nor yet 
Did those twin-brothers, risen again and whole ; 
Nor Arac, satiate with his victory. 

But I lay still, and with me oft she sat : 
Then came a change ; for sometimes I would catch 



122 THE PRINCESS; 

Her hand in wild delirium, gripe it hard, 

And fling it like a viper off, and shriek 

" You are not Ida ; '■" clasp it once again, 

And call her Ida, tho^ I knew her not, 

And call her sweet, as if in irony. 

And call her hard and cold which seem'd a truth : 

And still she fear'd that I should lose my mind, 

And often she believed that I should die : 

Till out of long frustration of her care, 

And pensive tendance in the all-weary noons, 

And watches in the dead, the dark, when clocks 

ThrobbM thunder thro' the palace floors, or call'd 

On flying Time from all their silver tongues — 

And out of memories of her kindlier days, 

And sidelong glances at my father's grief. 

And at the happy lovers heart in heart — 

And out of hauntings of my spoken love, 

And lonely listenings to my mutter'd dream, 

And often feeling of the helpless hands, 

And wordless broodings on the wasted cheek — 

From all a closer interest flourished up. 

Tenderness touch by touch, and last, to these. 

Love, like an Alpine harebell hung with tears 

By some cold morning glacier ; frail at first 

And feeble, all unconscious of itself, 

But such as gathered colour day by day. 

Last I woke sane, but well-nigh close to death 
For weakness : it was evening : silent light 
Slept on the painted walls, wherein were wrought 
Two grand designs ; for on one side arose 



A MEDLEY. 123 

The women up in wild revolt, and stormed 

At the Oppian law. Titanic shapes, they crammed 

The forum, and half-crush'd among the rest 

A dwarf-like Cato cower'd. On the other side 

Hortensia spoke against the tax ; behind, 

A train of dames : by axe and eagle sat. 

With all their foreheads drawn in Roman scowls, 

And half the wolf's-milk curdled in their veins, 

The fierce triumvirs ; and before them paused 

Hortensia pleading : angry was her face. 

I saw the forms : I knew not where I was : 
They did but look like hollow shows ; nor more 
Sweet Ida : palm to palm she sat : the dew 
Dwelt in her eyes, and softer all her shape 
And rounder seem'd : I moved : I sigh'd : a touch 
Came round my wrist, and tears upon my hand : 
Then all for languor and self-pity ran 
Mine down my face, and with what life I had, 
And like a flower that cannot all unfold. 
So drench'd it is with tempest, to the sun, 
Yet, as it may, turns toward him, I on her 
Fixt my faint eyes, and utterM whisperingly : 

"If you be, what I think you, some sweet dream, 
I would but ask you to fulfil yourself: 
But if you be that Ida whom I knew, 
I ask you nothing : only, if a dream. 
Sweet dream, be perfect. I shall die to-night. 
Stoop down and seem to kiss me ere I die." 



124 THE PRINCESS; 

I could no more, but lay like one in trance, 
That hears his burial talk'd of by his friends, 
And cannot speak, nor move, nor make one sign, 
But lies and dreads his doom. She turn'd ; she 

paused ; 
She stoop'd ; and out of languor leapt a cry ; 
Leapt fiery Passion from the brinks of death ; 
And I believed that in the living vi^orld 
My spirit closed with Ida's at the lips ; 
Till back I fell, and from mine arms she rose 
Glowing all over noble shame ; and all 
Her falser self slipt from her like a robe, 
And left her woman, lovelier in her mood 
Than in her mould that other, when she came 
From barren deeps to conquer all with love ; 
And down the streaming crystal dropt ; and she 
Far-fleeted by the purple island-sides. 
Naked, a double light in air and wave. 
To meet her Graces, where they deck'd her out 
For worship without end ; nor end of mine. 
Stateliest, for thee ! but mute she glided forth, 
Nor glanced behind her, and I sank and slept, 
FilPd thro' and thro^ with Love, a happy sleep. 

Deep in the night I woke : she, near me, held 
A volume of the Poets of her land : 
There to herself, all in low tones, she read. 

*' Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white ; 
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk ; 
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font: 
The fire-fly wakens : waken thou with me. 



A MEDLEY. 125 

Now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost, 
And Hke a ghost she ghmmers on to me. 

Now lies the Earth all Danae to the stars, 
And all thy heart lies open unto me. 

Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves 
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me. 

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, 
And slips into the bosom of the lake : 
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip 
Into my bosom and be lost in me." 

I heard her turn the page ; she found a small 
Sweet Idyl, and once more, as low, she read : 

" Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height: 
What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang) 
In height and cold, the splendour of the hills? 
But cease to move so near the Heavens, and cease 
To glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine, 
To sit a star upon the sparkling spire ; 
And come, for Love is of the valley, come, • 
For Love is of the valley, come thou down 
And find him ; by the happy threshold, he, 
Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize, 
Or red with spirted purple of the vats. 
Or foxhke in the vine; -nor cares to walk 
With Death and Morning on the silver horns, 
Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine, 
Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice. 
That huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls 
To roll the torrent out of dusky doors : 
But follow ; let the torrent dance thee down 
To find him in the valley ; let the wild 



126 THE PRINCESS; 

Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave 

The monstrous ledges therfe to slope, and spill 

Their thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke, 

That like a broken purpose waste in air : 

So waste not thou ; but come ; for all the vales 

Await thee ; azure pillars of the hearth 

Arise to thee ; the children call, and I 

Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound, 

Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet ; 

Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro* the lawn, 

The moan of doves in immemorial elms. 

And murmuring of innumerable bees." 

So she low-toned ; while with shut eyes I lay 
Listening ; then lookM. Pale was the perfect face ; 
The bosom with long sighs laboured ; and meek 
Seem'd the full lips, and mild the luminous eyes, 
And the voice trembled and the hand. She said 
Brokenly, that she knew it, she had faiPd 
In sweet humility ; had faiPd in all ; 
That all her labour was but as a block 
Left in the quarry ; but she still were loth, 
She still were loth to yield herself to one 
That wholly scorn'd to help their equal rights 
Against the sons of men, and barbarous laws. 
She pray'd me not to judge their cause from her 
That wrong'd it, sought far less for truth than 

power 
In knowledge : something wild within her breast, 
A greater than all knowledge, beat her down. 
And she had nursed me there from week to week : 
Much had she learnt in little time. In part 
It was ill counsel had misled the girl 



A MEDLEY. 127 

To vex true hearts : yet was she but a girl — 
" Ah fool, and made myself a Queen of farce ! 
When comes another such ? never, I think, 
Till the Sun drop, dead, from the signs." 

Her voice 
Choked, and her forehead sank upon her hands, 
And her great heart thro' all the faultful Past 
Went sorrowing in a pause T dared not break ; 
Till notice of a change in the dark world 
Was lispt about the acacias, and a bird. 
That early woke to feed her little ones, 
Sent from a dewy breast a cry for light : 
She moved, and at her feet the volume fell. 

'^ Blame not thyself too much," I said, " not 
blame 
Too much the sons of men and barbarous laws ; 
These were the rough ways of the world till now. 
Henceforth thou hast a helper, me, that know 
The woman's cause is man's : they rise or sink 
Together, dwarf 'd or godlike, bond or free : 
For she that out of Lethe scales with man 
The shining steps of Nature, shares with man 
His nights, his days, moves with him to one goal, 
Stays all the fair young planet in her hands — 
If she be small, slight-natured, miserable. 
How shall men grow ? but work no more alone ! 
Our place is much : as far as in us lies 
We two will serve them both in aiding her — 
Will clear away the parasitic forms 
That seem to keep her up but drag her down — 



128 THE PRINCESS ; 

Will leave her space to burgeon out of all 

Within her — let her make herself her own 

To give or keep, to live and learn and be 

All that not harms distinctive womanhood. 

For woman is not undevelopt man, 

But diverse : could we make her as the man, 

Sweet Love were slain : his dearest bond is this, 

Not like to like, but like in difference. 

Yet in the long years liker must they grow ; 

The man be more of woman, she of man ; 

He gain in sw^eetness and in moral height, 

Nor lose the wrestling thews that throw the world ; 

She mental breadth, nor fail in childward care, 

Nor lose the childlike in the larger mind ; 

Till at the last she set herself to man, 

Like perfect music unto noble words ; 

And so these twain, upon the skirts of Time, 

Sit side by side, full-summM in all their powers, 

Dispensing harvest, sowing the To-be, 

Self-reverent each and reverencing each. 

Distinct in individualities, 

But like each other ev'n as those who love. 

Then comes the statelier Eden back to men : 

Then reign the world's great bridals, chaste and 

calm : 
Then springs the crowning race of humankind. 
May these things be ! " 

Sighing she spoke " I fear 
They will not." 

" Dear, but let us type them now 
In our own lives, and this proud watchword rest 



A MEDLEY, 129 

Of equal ; seeing either sex alone 

Is half itself, and in true marriage lies 

Nor equal, nor unequal : each fulfils 

Defect in each, and always thought in thought, 

Purpose in purpose, will in will, they grow, 

The single pure and perfect animal, 

The two-celPd heart beating, with one full stroke, 

Life." 

And again sighing she spoke : " A dream 
That once was mine ! what woman taught you 
^ this?" 

"Alone," I said, "from earlier than I know, 
Immersed in rich foreshadowings of the world, 
I loved the woman : he, that doth not, lives 
A drowning life, besotted in sweet self, 
Or pines in sad experience worse than death, 
Or keeps his wing'd affections dipt with crime : 
Yet was there one thro^ whom I loved her, one 
Not learned, save in gracious household ways. 
Not perfect, nay, but full of tender wants. 
No Angel, but a dearer being, all dipt 
In Angel instincts, breathing Paradise, 
Interpreter between the Gods and men. 
Who looked all native to her place, and yet 
On tiptoe seemed to touch upon a sphere 
Too gross to tread, and all male minds perforce 
SwayM to her from their orbits as they moved, 
And girdled her with music. Happy he 
With such a mother ! faith in womankind 
Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high 



130 THE PRINCESS; 

Comes easy to him, and tho' he trip and fall 
He shall not blind his soul with clay." 

'' But I," 
Said Ida, tremulously, " so all unlike — 
It seems you love to cheat yourself with words : 
This mother is your model. I have heard 
Of your strange doubts : they well might be : I seem 
A mockery to my own self. Never, Prince ; 
You cannot love me." 

" Nay but thee " I said 
" From yearlong poring on thy pictured eyes, 
Ere seen I loved, and loved thee seen, and saw 
Thee woman thro' the crust of iron moods 
That masked thee from men's reverence up, and forced 
Sweet love on pranks of saucy boyhood : now, 
Giv'n back to life, to life indeed, thro' thee. 
Indeed I love : the new day comes, the light 
Dearer for night, as dearer thou for faults 
Lived over : lift thine eyes : my doubts are dead, 
My haunting sense of hollow shows : the change. 
This truthful change in thee has kilPd it. Dear, 
Look up, and let thy nature strike on mine. 
Like yonder morning on the blind half-world ; 
Approach and fear not ; breathe upon my brows ; 
In that fine air I tremble, all the past 
Melts mist-like into this bright hour, and this 
Is morn to more, and all the rich to-come 
Reels, as the golden Autumn woodland reels 
Athwart the smoke of burning weeds. Forgive me, 
I waste my heart in signs: let be. My bride, 
My wife, my life. O we will walk this world, 



A MEDLEY. 131 

Yoked in all exercise of noble end, 
And so thro' those dark gates across the wild 
That no man knows. Indeed I love thee : come 
Yield thyself up : my hopes and thine are one : 
Accomplish thou my manhood and thyself; 
Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust to me." 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY, 133 



CONCLUSION. 

So closed our tale, of which I give you all 

The random scheme as wildly as it rose : 

The words are mostly mine ; for when we ceased 

There came a minute's pause, and Walter said, 

*' I wish she had not yielded ! '' then to me, 

" What, if you drest it up poetically ! " 

So pray'd the men, the women: I gave assent: 

Yet how to bind the scatterM scheme of seven 

Together in one sheaf ? What style could suit? 

The men required that I should give throughout 

The sort of mock-heroic gigantesque, 

With which we banter^ little Lilia first : 

The women — and perhaps they felt their power, 

For something in the ballads which they sang, 

Or in their silent influence as they sat. 

Had ever seemM to wrestle with burlesque, 

And drove us, last, to quite a solemn close — 

They hated banter, wished for something real, 

A gallant fight, a noble princess — why 

Not make her true-heroic — true-sublime ? 

Or all, they said, as earnest as the close? 

Which yet with such a framework scarce could be. 

Then rose a little feud betwixt the two, 

Betwixt the mockers and the realists: 



134 THE PRINCESS; 

And I, betwixt them both, to please them both, 

And yet to give the story as it rose, 

I moved as in a strange diagonal, 

And maybe neither pleased myself nor them. 

But Lilia pleased me, for she took no part 
In our dispute : the sequel of the tale 
Had touch'd her; and she sat, she pluck'd the grass, 
She flung it from her, thinking : last, she fixt 
A showery glance upon her aunt, and said, 
*' You — tell us what we are " who might have told, 
For she was cramm'd with theories out of books. 
But that there rose a shout : the gates were closed 
At sunset, and the crowd were swarming now, 
To take their leave, about the garden rails. 

So I and some went out to these : we climb'd 
The slope to Vivian-place, and turning saw 
The happy valleys, half in light, and half 
Far-shadowing from the west, a land of peace ; 
Gray halls alone among their massive groves ; 
Trim hamlets ; here and there a rustic tower 
Half-lost in belts of hop and breadths of wheat; 
The shimmering glimpses of a stream ; the seas ; 
A red sail, or a white ; and far beyond. 
Imagined more than seen, the skirts of France. 

" Look there, a garden ! " said my college friend, 
The Tory member's elder son, " and there ! 
God bless the narrow sea which keeps her off, 
And keeps our Britain, whole within herself, 



A MEDLEY. 135 

A nation yet, the rulers and the ruled — 

Some sense of duty, something of a faith, 

Some reverence for the laws ourselves have made, 

Some patient force to change them when we will, 

Some civic manhood firm against the crowd — 

But yonder, whiff! there comes a sudden heat, 

The gravest citizen seems to lose his head, 

The king is scared, the soldier will not fight. 

The little boys begin to shoot and stab, 

A kingdom topples over with a shriek 

Like an old woman, and down rolls the world 

In mock heroics stranger than our own ; 

Revolts, republics, revolutions, most 

No graver than a schoolboys' barring out ; 

Too comic for the solemn things they are, 

Too solemn for the comic touches in them, 

Like our wild Princess with as wise a dream 

As some of theirs — God bless the narrow seas ! 

I wish they were a whole Atlantic broad." 

" Have patience," I replied, " ourselves are full 
Of social wrong ; and maybe wildest dreams 
Are but the needful preludes of the truth : 
For me, the genial day, the happy crowd. 
The sport half-science, fill me with a faith. 
This fine old world of ours is but a child 
Yet in the go-cart. Patience ! Give it time 
To learn its limbs : there is a hand that guides." 

In such discourse we gain'd the garden rails, 
And there we saw Sir Walter where he stood, 



136- THE PRINCESS; 

Before a tower of crimson holly-oaks, 

Among six boys, head under head, and look'd 

No little lily-handed Baronet he, 

A great broad-shoulder'd genial Englishman, 

A lord of fat prize-oxen and of sheep, 

A raiser of huge melons and of pine, 

A patron of some thirty charities, 

A pamphleteer on guano and on grain, 

A quarter-sessions chairman, abler none ; 

Fair-hair'd and redder than a windy morn ; 

Now shaking hands with him, now him, of those 

That stood the nearest — now addressed to 

speech — 
Who spoke few words and pithy, such as closed 
Welcome, farewell, and welcome for the year 
To follow : a shout rose again, and made 
The long line of the approaching rookery swerve 
From the elms, and shook the branches of the deer 
From slope to slope thro' distant ferns, and rang 
Beyond the bourn of sunset ; O, a shout 
More joyful than the city-roar that hails 
Premier or king ! Why should not these great Sirs 
Give up their parks some dozen times a year 
To let the people breathe? So thrice they cried, 
I likewise, and in groups they streamed away. 

But we went back to the Abbey, and sat on, 
So much the gathering darkness charm'd : we sat 
But spoke not, rapt in nameless reverie. 
Perchance upon the future man : the walls 
BlackenM about us, bats wheePd, and owls whoop'd, 



/ ! 



A MEDLEY. 137 

And gradually the powers of the night, 
That range above the region of the wind, 
Deepening the courts of twilight broke them up 
Thro' all the silent spaces of the worlds. 
Beyond all thought into the Heaven of Heavens. 

Last little Lilia, rising quietly, 
Disrobed the glimmering statue of Sir Ralph 
From those rich silks, and home well-pleased w^e 
went. 



maud; a monodrama. 



PART I. 
I. 

I. 

I HATE the dreadful hollow behind the little wood, 
Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-red 

heath, 
The red-ribb'd ledges drip with a silent horror of 

blood, 
And Echo there, whatever is ask'd her, answers 

« Death/' 

II. 

For there in the ghastly pit long since a body was 

found, 
His who had given me life — O father ! O God ! 

was it well ? — 
Mangled, and flattenM, and crushM, and dinted 

into the ground : 
There yet lies the rock that fell with him when he 

fell. 



140 MAUD; 



III. 



Did he fling himself down? who knows? for a vast 

speculation had faiPd, 
And ever he mutter'd and madden'd, and ever 

wann'd with despair, 
And out he walkM when the wind like a broken 

worldling waiPd, 
And the flying gold of the ruin'd woodlands drove 

thro' the air. 

IV. 

I remember the time, for the roots of my hair were 
stirrM 

By a shuflied step, by a dead weight traiPd, by a 
whisper'd fright, 

And my pulses closed their gates with a shock on 
my heart as I heard 

The shrill-edged shriek of a mother divide the shud- 
dering night. 

V. 

Villainy somewhere I whose ? One says, we are 

villains all. 
Not he : his honest fame should at least by me be 

maintained : 
But that old man, now lord of the broad estate and 

the Hall, 
Dropt off" gorged from a scheme that had left us 

flaccid and drained. 



A MONODRAMA. 141 

VI. 

Why do they prate of the blessings of Peace ? we 

have made them a curse, 
Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its 

own ; 
And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it better or 

worse 
Than the heart of the citizen hissing in war on his 

own hearthstone? 



VII. 

But these are the days of advance, the works of the 
men of mind, 

When who but a fool would have faith in a trades- 
man's ware or his word ? 

Is it peace or war? Civil war, as I think, and that of 
a kind 

The viler, as underhand, not openly bearing the 
sword. 



VIII. 

Sooner or later I too may passively take the print 
Of the golden age — why not ? I have neither hope 

nor trust ; 
lay make my heart as a millstone, set my face as a 

flint. 
Cheat and be cheated, and die : who knows? we are 

ashes and dust. 



142 MAUD; 



IX. 



Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days 

gone by, 
When the poor are hovelPd and hustled together, 

each sex, like swine, 
When only the ledger lives, and when only not all 

men lie ; 
Peace in her vineyard — yes! — but a company 

forges the wine. 



And the vitriol madness flushes up in the ruffian's 

head. 
Till the filthy by-lane rings to the yell of the trampled 

wife. 
And chalk and alum and plaster are sold to the poor 

for bread, 
And the spirit of murder works in the very means of 

life, 

XI. 

And Sleep must lie down arm'd, for the villainous 
centre-bits 

Grind on the wakeful ear in the hush of the moon- 
less nights, 

While another is cheating the sick of a few last 
gasps, as he sits 

To pestle a poison'd poison behind his crimson 
lights. 



A MONODRAMA, 143 

XII. 

When a Mammonite mother kills her babe for a 

burial fee, 
And Timour-Mammon grins on a pile of children's 

bones, 
Is it peace or war? better, war! loud war by land 

and by sea, 
War with a thousand battles, and shaking a hundred 

thrones. 

XIII. 

For I trust if an enemy's fleet came yonder round by 
the hill, 

And the rushing battle-bolt sang from the three- 
decker out of the foam. 

That the smooth-faced snubnosed rogue would leap 
from his counter and till. 

And strike, if he could, were it but with his cheating 
yardwand, home. 

xrv. 

What ! am I raging alone as my father raged in his 
mood? 

Must / too creep to the hollow and dash myself 
down and die 

Rather than hold by the law that I made, nevermore 
to brood 

On a horror of shattered limbs and a wretched swin- 
dler's lie? 



144 MAUD; 

XV. 

Would there be sorrow for me ? there was love in 

the passionate shriek, 
Love for the silent thing that had made false haste 

to the grave — 
Wrapt in a cloak, as I saw him, and thought he 

would rise and speak 
And rave at the lie and the liar, ah God, as he used 

to rave. 

XVI. 

I am sick of the Hall and the hill, I am sick of the 

moor and the main. 
Why should I stay ? can a sweeter chance ever come 

to me here? 
O, having the nerves of motion as well as the nerves 

of pain. 
Were it not wise if I fled from the place and the pit 

and the fear? 



XVII. 

Workmen up at the Hall ! — they are coming back 

from abroad ; 
The dark old place will be gilt by the touch of a 

millionaire : 
I have heard, I know not whence, of the singular 

beauty of Maud ; 
I play'd with the girl when a child ; she promised 

then to be fair. 



A MONODRAMA, 145 



XVIII. 



Maud with her venturous climbings and tumbles 

and childish escapes, 
Maud the delight of the village, the ringing joy of 

the Hall, 
Maud with her sweet purse-mouth when my father 

dangled the grapes, 
Maud the beloved of my mother, the moon-faced 

darling of all, — . 

XIX. 

What is she now? My dreams are bad. She may 

bring me a curse. 
No, there is fatter game on the moor ; she will let 

me alone. 
Thanks, for the fiend best knows whether woman or 

man be the worse. 
I will bury myself in myself, and the Devil may pipe 

to his own. 



146 MAUD: 



II. 



Long have I sigh'd for a calm : God grant I may find 
it at last ! 

It will never be broken by Maud, she has neither 
savour nor salt, 

But a cold and clear-cut face, as I found when her 
carriage past, 

Perfectly beautiful : let it be granted her : where is 
the fault? 

All that I saw (for her eyes were down,cast, not to 
be seen) 

Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null, 

Dead perfection, no more ; nothing more, if it had 
not been 

For a chance of travel, a paleness, an hour's defect 
of the rose, 

Or an underlip, you may call it a little too ripe, too 
full, 

Or the least little delicate aquiline curve in a sensi- 
tive nose. 

From which I escaped heart-free, with the least lit- 
tle touch of spleen. 



A MONODRAMA, 147 



III. 



Cold and clear-cut face, why come you so cruelly 

meek, 
Breaking a slumber in which all spleenful folly was 

drown'd, 
Pale with the golden beam of an eyelash dead on 

the cheek, 
Passionless, pale, cold face, star-sweet on a gloom 

profound ; 
Womanlike, taking revenge too deep for a transient 

wrong 
Done but in thought to your beauty, and ever as 

pale as before 
Growing and fading and growing upon me without 

a sound. 
Luminous, gemlike, ghostlike, deathlike, half the 

night long 
Growing and fading and growing, till I could bear it 

no more. 
But arose, and all by myself in my own dark garden 

ground, 
Listening now to the tide in its broad-flung ship- 
wrecking roar. 
Now to the scream of a madden'd beach dragged 

down by the wave, 



148 MAUD; 

Walk'd in a wintry wind by a ghastly glimmer, and 

found 
The shining daffodil dead, and Orion low in his 

grave. 



A MONODRAMA. 149 



IV. 



I. . 



A million emeralds break from the ruby-budded lime 

In the little grove where I sit— ah, wherefore can- 
not I be 

Like things of the season gay, like the bountiful 
season bland, 

When the far-off sail is blown by the breeze of a 
softer cHme, 

Half-lost in the liquid azure bloom of a crescent of 
sea. 

The silent sapphire-spangled marriage ring of the 
land? 



II. 

Below me, there, is the village, and looks how quiet 
and small ! 

And yet bubbles o'er like a city, with gossip, scan- 
dal, and spite ; 

And Jack on his ale-house bench has as many lies 
as a Czar ; 

And here on the landward side, by a red rock, 
glimmers the Hall ; 



150 MAUD; 

And up in the high Hall-garden I see her pass like a 

light; 
But sorrow seize me if ever that light be my leading 

star ! 

III. 

When have I bovi^'d to her father, the wrinkled head 
of the race ? 

I met her to-day with her brother, but not to her 
brother I bow'd : 

I bow'd to his lady-sister as she rode by on the 
moor ; 

But the fire of a foolish pride flash'd over her beau- 
tiful face. 

child, you wrong your beauty, believe it, in being 

so proud ; 
Your father has wealth well-gotten, and I am name- 
less and poor. 

IV. 

1 keep but a man and a maid, ever ready to slander 

and steal ; 
I know it, and smile a hard-set smile, like a stoic, or 

like 
A wiser epicurean, and let the world have its way : 
For nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher 

can heal ; 
The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow 

spear'd by the shrike. 
And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of 

plunder and prey. 



A MONODRAMA, 151 

V. 

We are puppets, Man in his pride, and Beauty fair 

in her flower ; 
Do we move ourselves, or are moved by an unseen 

hand at a game 
That pushes us off from the board, and others ever 

succeed ? 
Ah yet, we cannot be kind to each other here for an 

hour ; 
We whisper, and hint, and chuckle, and grin at a 

brother's shame ; 
However we brave it out, we men are a little breed. 

VI. 

A monstrous eft was of old the Lord and Master of 
Earth, 

For him did his high sun flame, and his river billow- 
ing ran. 

And he felt himself in his force to be Nature's 
crowning race. 

As nine months go to the shaping an infant ripe for 
his birth. 

So many a million of ages have gone to the making 
of man : 

He now is first, but is he the last? is he not too 
base? 

VII. 

The man of science himself is fonder of glory, and 
vain, 



152 MAUD; 

An eye well-practised in nature, a spirit bounded 
and poor ; 

The passionate heart of the poet is whirPd into 
folly and vice. 

I would not marvel at either, but keep a temperate 
brain ; 

For not to desire or admire, if a man could learn it, 
were more 

Than to walk all day like the sultan of old in a gar- 
den of spice. 

VIII. 

For the drift of the Maker is dark, an I sis hid by 

the veil. 
Who knows the ways of the world, how God will 

bring them about? 
Our planet is one, the suns are many, the world is 

wide. 
Shall I weep if a Poland fall? shall I shriek if a 

Hungary fail? 
Or an infant civilisation be ruled with rod or with 

knout ? 
/ have not made the world, and He that made it 

will guide. 

IX. 

Be mine a philosopher's life in the quiet woodland 

ways, 
Where if I cannot be gay let a passionless peace be 

my lot. 



A MONODRAMA. 153 

Far-ofFfrom the clamour of liars belied in the hub-. 

bub of lies ; 
From the long-neck'd geese of the world that are 

ever hissing dispraise 
Because their natures are little, and, whether he 

heed it or not, 
Where each man walks with his head in a cloud of 

poisonous flies. 

X. 

And most of all would I flee from the cruel madness 

of love, 
The honey of poison-flowers and all the measureless 

ill. 
Ah Maud, you milkwhite fawn, you are all unmeet 

for a wife. 
Your mother is mute in her grave as her image in 

marble above ; 
Your father is ever in London, you wander about at 

your will ; 
You have but fed on the roses and lain in the lilies 

of life. 



154 MAUD: 



V. 

I. 

A voice by the cedar tree 

In the meadow under the Hall ! 

She is singing an air that is known to me, 

A passionate ballad gallant and gay, 

A martial song like a trumpet's call ! 

Singing alone in the morning of Ufe, 

In the happy morning of hfe and of May, 

Singing of men that in battle array, 

Ready in heart and ready in hand, 

March with banner and bugle and fife 

To the death, for their native land. 



II. 

Maud with her exquisite face, 
And wild voice pealing up to the sunny sky, 
And feet like sunny gems on an English green, 
Maud in the light of her youth and her grace, 
Singing of Death, and of Honour that cannot die, 
Till I well could weep for a time so sordid and mean, 
And myself so languid and base. 



A MONODRAMA. 155 

III. 

Silence, beautiful voice ! 

Be still, for you only trouble the mind 

With a joy in which I cannot rejoice, 

A glory I shall not find. 

Still ! I will hear you no more, 

For your sweetness hardly leaves me a choice 

But to move to the meadow and fall before 

Her feet on the meadow grass, and adore, 

Not her, who is neither courtly nor kind, 

Not her, not her, but a voice. 



156 MAUD: 



VI. 



Morning arises stormy and pale, 

No sun, but a wannish glare 

In fold upon fold of hueless cloud, 

And the budded peaks of the wood are bow'd 

Caught and cuff 'd by the gale ; 

I had fancied it would be fair. 

II. 

Whom but Maud should I meet 

Last night, when the sunset burn'd 

On the blossoniM gable-ends 

At the head of the village street, 

Whom but Maud should I meet? 

And she touchM my hand with a smile so sweet. 

She made me divine amends 

For a courtesy not returned. 



III. 

And thus a delicate spark 

Of glowing and growing light 

Thro' the livelong hours of the dark 

Kept itself warm in the heart of my dreams, 



A MONODRAMA, 157 

Ready to burst in a colour'd flame ; 
Till at last when the morning came 
In a cloud, it faded, and seems 
But an ashen-gray delight. 

IV. 

What if with her sunny hair, 

And smile as sunny as cold, 

She meant to weave me a snare 

Of some coquettish deceit, 

Cleopatra-like as of old 

To entangle me when we met, 

To have her lion roll in a silken net 

And fawn at a victor's feet. 



V. 

Ah, what shall I be at fifty 

Should Nature keep me alive, 

If I find the world so bitter 

When I am but twenty-five? 

Yet, if she were not a cheat, 

If Maud were all that she seem'd. 

And her smile were all that I dream'd, 

Then the world were not so bitter 

But a smile could make it sweet. 



VI. 

What if tho' her eyes seem'd full 
Of a kind intent to me, 



158 MAUD; 

What if that dandy-despot, he, 
That jeweird mass of millinery, 
That oiPd and curPd Assyrian Bull 
Smelling of musk and of insolence, 
Her brother, from whom I keep aloof, 
Who wants the finer politic sense 
To mask, tho' but in his own behoof, 
With a glassy smile his brutal scorn — 
What if he had told her yestermorn 
How prettily for his own sweet sake 
A face of tenderness might be feign'd, 
And a moist mirage in desert eyes. 
That so, when the rotten hustings shake 
In another month to his brazen lies, 
A wretched vote may be gain'd. 

VII. 

For a raven ever croaks, at my side, 

Keep watch and ward, keep watch and ward. 

Or thou wilt prove their tool. 

Yea, too, myself from myself I guard. 

For often a man's own angry pride 

Is cap and bells for a fool. 

VIII. 

Perhaps the smile and tender tone 
Came out of her pitying womanhood, 
For am I not, am I not, here alone 
So many a summer since she died. 
My mother, who was so gentle and good? 
Living alone in an empty house. 



A MONODRAMA. ]59 

Here half-hid in the gleaming wood, 

Where I hear the dead at midday moan, 

And the shrieking rush of the wainscot mouse. 

And my own sad name in corners cried. 

When the shiver of dancing leaves is thrown 

About its echoing chambers wide, 

Till a morbid hate and horror have grown 

Of a world in which I have hardly mixt, 

And a morbid eating lichen fixt 

On a heart half-turn'd to stone. 

IX. 

heart of stone, are you flesh, and caught 
By that you swore to withstand? 

For what was it else within me wrought 
But, I fear, the new strong wine of love, 
That made my tongue so stammer and trip 
When I saw the treasured splendour, her hand, 
Come sliding out of her sacred glove. 
And the sunlight broke from her lip? 

X. 

1 have playM with her when a child ; 
She remembers it now we meet. 

Ah well, well, well, I may be beguiled 

By some coquettish deceit. 

Yet, if she were not a cheat, 

If Maud were all that she seemM, 

And her smile had all that I dream'd, 

Then the world were not so bitter 

But a smile could make it sweet. 



160 



MAUD; 



VII. 



I. 



Did I hear it half in a doze 
Long since, I know not where ? 

Did I dream it an hour ago, 
When asleep in this arm-chair? 



II. 



Men were drinking together, 
Drinking and talking of me ; 

" Well, if it prove a girl, the boy 
Will have plenty : so let it be." 



III. 

Is it an echo of something 
Read with a boy's delight. 

Viziers nodding together 
In some Arabian night? 



IV. 



Strange, that I hear two men, 
Somewhere, talking of me ; 

" Well, if it prove a girl, my boy 
Will have plenty : so let it be." 



A MONODRAMA. 161 



VIII. 

She came to the village church, 

And sat by a pillar alone ; 

An angel watching an urn 

Wept over her, carved in stone ; 

And once, but once, she lifted her eyes, 

And suddenly, sweetly, strangely blush'd 

To find they were met by my own ; 

And suddenly, sweetly, my heart beat stronger 

And thicker, until I heard no longer 

The snowy-banded, dilettante, 

Delicate-handed priest intone ; 

And thought, is it pride, and mused and sigh'd 

"No surely, now it cannot be pride." 



162 MAUD; 



IX. 

I was walking a mile, 
More than a mile from the shore, 
The sun look'd out with a smile 
Betwixt the cloud and the moor. 
And riding at set of day 
Over the dark moor land, 
Rapidly riding far away, 
She waved to me with her hand. 
There were two at her side, 
Something flashed in the sun, 
Down by the hill I saw them ride 
In a moment they were gone : 
Like a sudden spark 
Struck vainly in the night, 
Then returns the dark 
With no more hope of light. 



A MONODRAMA, 163 



Sick, am I sick of a jealous dread? 

Was not one of the two at her side 

This new-made lord, whose splendour plucks 

The slavish hat from the villager's head? 

Whose old grandfather has lately died, 

Gone to a blacker pit, for whom 

Grimy nakedness dragging his trucks 

And laying his trams in a poison'd gloom 

Wrought, till he crept from a gutted mine 

Master of half a servile shire, 

And left his coal all turn'd into gold 

To a grandson, first of his noble line, 

Rich in the grace all women desire, 

Strong in the power that all men adore. 

And simper and set their voices lower, 

And soften as if to a girl, and hold 

Awe-stricken breaths at a work divine, 

Seeing his gewgaw castle shine, 

New as his title, built last year, 

There amid perky larches and pine, 

And over the sullen-purple moor 

(Look at it) pricking a cockney ear. 



164 MAUD; 

II. 

What, has he found my jewel out? 
For one of the two that rode at her side 
Bound for the Hall, I am sure was he : 
Bound for the Hall, and I think for a bride. 
Blithe would her brother^s acceptance be. 
Maud could be gracious too, no doubt 
To a lord, a captain, a padded shape, 
A bought commission, a waxen face, 
A rabbit mouth that is ever agape — 
Bought? what is it he cannot buy? 
And therefore splenetic, personal, base, 
A wounded thing with a rancorous cry, 
At war with myself and a wretched race, 
Sick, sick to the heart of life, am I. 

III. 

Last week came one to the county town, 
To preach our poor little army down. 
And play the game of the despot kings, 
Tho' the state has done it and thrice as well : 
This broad-brimm'd hawker of holy things, 
Whose ear is cramm'd with his cotton, and 

rings 
Even in dreams to the chink of his pence, 
This huckster put down war ! can he tell 
Whether war be a cause or a consequence? 
Put down the passions that make earth Hell ! 
Down with ambition, avarice, pride. 
Jealousy, down ! cut off from the mind 



A MONODRAMA. 165 

The bitter springs of anger and fear ; 
Down too, down at your own fireside, 
With the evil tongue and the evil ear, 
For each is at war with mankind. 

IV. 

I wish I could hear again 

The chivalrous battle-song 

That she warbled alone in her joy ! 

I might persuade myself then 

She would not do herself this great wrong, 

To take a wanton dissolute boy 

For a man and leader of men. 

V. 

Ah God, for a man with heart, head, hand, 
Like some of the simple great ones gone 
For ever and ever by. 
One still strong man in a blatant land, 
Whatever they call him, what care I, 
Aristocrat, democrat, autocrat — one 
Who can rule and dare not lie. 

VI. 

And ah for a man to arise in me, 
That the man I am may cease to be ! 



166 MAUD; 



XI. 



let the solid ground 
Not fail beneath my feet 

Before my life has' found 

What some have found so sweet ; 
Then let come what come may, 
What matter if I go mad, 

1 shall have had my day. 

II. 

Let the sweet heavens endure, 
Not close and darken above me 

Before I am quite quite sure 
That there is one to love me ; 

Then let come what come may 

To a Hfe that has been so sad, 

I shall have had my day. 



A MONODRAMA. 167 



XII. 



Birds in the high Hall-garden 
When twilight was falling, 

Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud, 
They were crying and calling. 

II. 

Where was Maud ? in our wood ; 

And I, who else, was with her, 
Gathering woodland lilies, 

Myriads blow together. 

III. 

Birds in our wood sang 
Ringing thro' the valleys, 

Maud is here, here, here 
In among the lilies. 

IV. 

I kissM her slender hand, 
She took the kiss sedately; 

Maud is not seventeen. 
But she is tall and stately. 



168 MAUD; 



I to cry out on pride 

Who have won her favour ! 

Maud were sure of Heaven 
If lowliness could save her. 

VI. 

1 know the way she went 

Home with her maiden posy, 
For her feet have touch'd the meadows 
And left the daisies rosy. 

VII. 

Birds in the high Hall-garden 
Were crying and calling to her, 

Where is Maud, Maud, Maud? 
One is come to woo her. 

VIII. 

Look, a horse at the door, 

And little King Charley snarling, 

Go back, my lord, across the moor, 
You are not her darling. 



A MONODRAMA, 169 



XIII. 



I. 



Scorn'd, to be scornM by one that I scorn, 

Is that a matter to make me fret? 

That a calamity hard to be borne? 

Well, he may live to hate me yet. 

Fool that I am to be vext with his pride ! 

I past him, I was crossing his lands ; 

He stood on the path a little aside ; 

His face, as I grant, in spite of spite, 

Has a broad-blown comeliness, red and white, 

And six feet two, as I think, he stands ; 

But his essences turnM the live air sick. 

And barbarous opulence jewel-thick 

Sunn'd itself on his breast and his hands. 



II. 

Who shall call me ungentle, unfair, 
I long'd so heartily then and there 
To give him the grasp of fellowship ; 
But while I past he was humming an air, 
Stopt, and then with a riding-whip 
Leisurely tapping a glossy boot, 
And curving a contumelious lip, 



170 MAUD; 

Gorgonised me from head to foot 
With a stony British stare. 

III. 

Why sits he here in his father^s chair? 
That old man never comes to his place : 
Shall I believe him ashamed to be seen? 
For only once, in the village street, 
Last year, I caught a glimpse of his face, 
A gray old wolf and a lean. 
Scarcely, now, would I call him a cheat ; 
For then, perhaps, as a child of deceit, 
She might by a true descent be untrue ; 
And Maud is as true as Maud is sweet : 
Tho' I fancy her sweetness only due 
To the sweeter blood by the other side ; 
Her mother has been a thing complete, 
However she came to be so allied. 
And fair without, faithful within, 
Maud to him is nothing akin : 
Some peculiar mystic grace 
Made her only the child of her mother, 
And heap'd the whole inherited sin 
On that huge scapegoat of the race. 
All, all upon the brother. 

IV. 

Peace, angry spirit, and let him be ! 
Has not his sister smiled on me? 



A MONODRAMA. 171 



XIV. 



I. 



Maud has a garden of roses 
And lilies fair on a lawn ; 
There she walks in her state 
And tends upon bed and bower, 
And thither I climb'd at dawn 
And stood by her garden-gate ; 
A lion ramps at the top, 
He is claspt by a passion-flower. 



II. 

Maud's own little oak-room 

(Which Maud, like a precious stone 

Set in the heart of the carven gloom, 

Lights with herself, when alone 

She sits by her music and books 

And her brother lingers late 

With a roystering company) looks 

Upon Maud's own garden-gate : 

And I thought as I stood, if a hand, as white 

As ocean-foam in the moon, were laid 

On the hasp of the window, and my Delight 



172 MAUD; 

Had a sudden desire, like a glorious ghost, to glide, 
Like a beam of the seventh Heaven, down to my side, 
There were but a step to be made. 

III. 

The fancy flatter'd my mind. 

And again seem'd overbold ; 

Now I thought that she cared for me, 

Now I thought she was kind 

Only because she was cold. 

IV. 

I heard no sound where I stood 
But the rivulet on from the lawn 
Running down to my own dark wood ; 
Or the voice of the long sea-wave as it swelPd 
Now and then in the dim-gray dawn ; 
But I look'd, and round, all round the house I beheld 
The death-white curtain drawn ; 
Felt a horror over me creep, 
Prickle my skin and catch my breath, 
Knew that the death-white curtain meant but sleep. 
Yet I shudderM and thought like a fool of the sleep 
of death. 



A MONODRAMA, 173 



XV. 

So dark a mind within me dwells, 
And I make myself such evil cheer, 

That if /be dear to some one else, 

Then some one else may have much to fear ; 

But if / be dear to some one else, 

Then I should be to myself more dear. 

Shall I not take care of all that I think, 

Yea ev'n of wretched meat and drink, 

If I be dear, 

If I be dear to some one else. 



174 MAUD; 



XVI. 



This lump of earth has left his estate 

The lighter by the loss of his weight ; 

And so that he find what he went to seek. 

And fulsome Pleasure clog him, and drown 

His heart in the gross mud-honey of town, 

He may stay for a year who has gone for a week : 

But this is the day when I must speak, 

And I see my Oread coming down, 

O this is the day ! 

beautiful creature, what am I 
That I dare to look her way ; 
Think I may hold dominion sweet. 
Lord of the pulse that is lord of her breast. 
And dream of her beauty with tender dread, 
From the delicate Arab arch of her feet 
To the grace that, bright and light as the crest 
Of a peacock, sits on her shining head, 
And she knows it not : O, if she knew it, 
To know her beauty might half undo it. f \ 

1 know it the one bright thing to save 
My yet young life in the wilds of Time, 
Perhaps from madness, perhaps from crime, 
Perhaps from a selfish grave. 



A MONODRAMA. 175 



II. 



What, if she be fastened to this fool lord, 

Dare I bid her abide by her word ? 

Should I love her so well if she 

Had given her word to a thing so low? 

Shall I love her as well if she 

Can break her word were it even for me? 

I trust that it is not so. 

III. 

Catch not my breath, O clamorous heart, 
Let not my tongue be a thrall to my eye, 
For I must tell her before we part, 
I must tell her, or die. 



176 MAUD: 



XVII. 

Go not, happy day, 

From the shining fields, 
Go not, happy day, 

Till the maiden yields. 
Rosy is the West, 

Rosy is the South, 
Roses are her cheeks, 

And a rose her mouth 
When the happy Yes 

Falters from her lips, 
Pass and blush the news 

Over glowing ships ; 
Over blowing seas, 

Over seas at rest. 
Pass the happy news, 

Blush it thro' the West ; 
Till the red man dance 

By his red cedar-tree, 
And the red man's babe 

Leap, beyond the sea. 
Blush from West to East, 

Blush from East to West, 
Till the West is East, 

Blush it thro' the West. 



A MONODRAMA, 177 

Rosy is the West, 

Rosy is the South, 
Roses are her cheeks, 

And a rose her mouth. 



.78 



MAUD; 



XVIII. 



I have led her home, my love, my only friend. 

There is none like her, none. 

And never yet so warmly ran my blood 

And sweetly, on and on 

Calming itself to the long-wish'd-for end. 

Full to the banks, close on the promised good. 

II. 

None like her, none. 

Just now the dry-tongued laurels' pattering talk 

Seem'd her light foot along the garden walk. 

And shook my heart to think she comes once more ; 

But even then I heard her close the door. 

The gates of Heaven are closed, and she is gone. 



III. 

There is none like her, none. 

Nor will be when our summers have deceased. 

O, art thou sighing for Lebanon 

In the long breeze that streams to thy delicious 

East, 
Sighing for Lebanon, 



A MONODRAMA. 179 

Dark cedar, tho' thy limbs have here increased, 
Upon a pastoral slope as fair, 
And looking to the South, and fed 
With honey'd rain and delicate air, 
And haunted by the starry head 
Of her whose gentle will has changed my fate. 
And made my life a perfumed altar-flame ; 
And over whom thy darkness must have spread 
With such delight as theirs of old, thy great 
Forefathers of the thornless garden, there 
Shadowing the snow-limb'd Eve from whom she 
came. 

iv. 

Here will I lie, while these long branches sway, 
And you fair stars that crown a happy day 
Go in and out as if at merry play, 
Who am no more so all forlorn. 
As when it seem'd far better to be born 
To labour and the mattock-harden'd hand, 
Than nursed at ease and brought to understand 
A sad astrology, the boundless plan 
That makes you tyrants in your iron skies, 
Innumerable, pitiless, passionless eyes. 
Cold fires, yet with power to burn and brand 
His nothingness into man. 



V. 

But now shine on, and what care I, 

Who in this stormy gulf have found a pearl 



180 MAUD: 

The countercharm of space and hollow sky, 
And do accept my madness, and would die 
To save from some slight shame one simple girl. 

VI. 

Would die ; for sullen-seeming Death may give 

More life to Love than is or ever was 

In our low world, where yet 'tis sweet to live. 

Let no one ask me how it came to pass ; 

It seems that I am happy, that to me 

A liveher emerald twinkles in the grass, 

A purer sapphire melts into the sea. 

VII. 

Not die ; but live a life of truest breath, 
And teach true life to fight with mortal wrongs. 
O, why should Love, like men in drinking-songs, 
Spice his fair banquet with the dust of death ? 
Make answer, Maud my bliss, 
Maud made my Maud by that long loving kiss, 
Life of my life, wilt thou not answer this ? 
" The dusky strand of Death inwoven here 
With dear Love's tie, makes Love himself more 
dear." 

VIII. 

Is that enchanted moan only the swell 
Of the long waves that roll in yonder bay? 
\nd hark the clock within, the silver knell 
f twelve sweet hours that past in bridal white, 



A MONODRAMA. 181 

And died to live, long as my pulses play ; 
But now by this my love has closed her sight 
And given false death her hand, and stoPn away 
To dreamful wastes where footless fancies dwell 
Among the fragments of the golden day. 
May nothing there her maiden grace affright ! 
Dear heart, I feel with thee the drowsy spell. 
My bride to be, my evermore delight, 
My own heart's heart, my ownest own, farewell ; 
It is but for a little space I go : 
And ye meanwhile far over moor and fell 
Beat to the noiseless music of the night ! 
Has our whole earth gone nearer to the glow 
Of your soft splendours that you look so bright? 
/ have climb'd nearer out of lonely Hell. 
Beat, happy stars, timing with things below, 
Beat with my heart more blest than heart can tell, 
Blest, but for some dark undercurrent woe 
That seems to draw — but it shall not be so : 
Let all be well, be well. 



182 MAUD; 






XIX. 



I. 



Her brother is coming back to-night, 
Breaking up my dream of delight. 

II. 

My dream ? do I dream of bliss ? 
I have walk'd awake with Truth. 

when did a morning shine 
So rich in atonement as this 
For my dark-dawning youth, 
Darkened watching a mother decline 
And that dead man at her heart and mine : 
For who was left to watch her but I ? 

Yet so did I let my freshness die. 

III. 

1 trust that I did not talk 
To gentle Maud in our walk 
(For often in* lonely wanderings 

I have cursed him even to lifeless things) 
But I trust that I did not talk, 
Not touch on her father's sin: 
I am sure I did but speak 



A MONODRAMA, 183 

Of my mother's faded cheek 

When it slowly grew so thin, 

That I felt she was slowly dying 

Vext with lawyers and harass^ with debt : 

For how often I caught her with eyes all wet, 

Shaking her head at her son and sighing 

A world of trouble within ! 

IV. 

And Maud too, Maud was moved 

To speak of the mother she loved 

As one scarce less forlorn, 

Dying abroad and it seems apart 

From him who had ceased to share her heart, 

And ever mourning over the feud, 

The household Fury sprinkled with blood 

By which our houses are torn : 

How strange was what she said, 

When only Maud and the brother 

Hung over her dying bed — 

That Maud's dark father and mine 

Had bound us one to the other, 

Betrothed us over their wine, 

On the day when Maud was born ; 

SeaPd her mine from her first sweet breath. 

Mine, mine by a right, from birth till death. 

Mine, mine — our fathers have sworn. 

V. 

But the true blood spilt had in it a heat 
To dissolve the precious seal on a bond, 



184 MAUD; 

That, if left uncancelPd, had been so sweet : 
And none of us thought of a something beyond, 
A desire that awoke in the heart of the child, 
As it were a duty done to the tomb, 
To be friends for her sake, to be reconciled ; 
And I was cursing them and my doom, 
And letting a dangerous thought run wild 
While often abroad in the fragrant gloom 
Of foreign churches — I see her there. 
Bright English lily, breathing a prayer 
To be friends, to be reconciled ! 

VI. 

But then what a flint is he ! 
Abroad, at Florence, at Rome, 
I find whenever she touchM on me 
This brother had laughM her down, 
And at last, when each came home, 
He had darkened into a frown, 
Chid her, and forbid her to speak 
To me, her friend of the years before ; 
And this was what had redden'd her cheek 
When I bow'd to her on the moor. 

VII. 

Yet Maud, altho^ not blind 
To the faults of his heart and mind, 
I see she cannot but love him, 
And says he is rough but kind, 
And wishes me to approve him, 



A MONODRAMA. 185 

And tells me, when she lay 

Sick once, with a fear of worse, 

That he left his wine and horses and play, 

Sat with her, read to her, night and day, 

And tended her like a nurse. 



VIII. 

Kind? but the deathbed desire 
Spurn'd by this heir of the liar — 
Rough but kind.'^ yet I know 
He has plotted against me in this. 
That he plots against me still. 
Kind to Maud? that were not amiss. 
Well, rough but kind ; why let it be so 
For shall not Maud have her will ? 



IX. 

For, Maud, so tender and true, 

As long as my life endures 

I feel I shall owe you a debt, 

That I never can hope to pay ; 

And if ever I should forget 

That I owe this debt to you 

And for your sweet sake to yours ; 

O then, what then shall I say? — 

If ever I should forget, 

May God make me more wretched 

Then ever I have been yet ! 



186 MAUD; 

X. 

So now I have sworn to bury 

All this dead body of hate, 

I feel so free and so clear 

By the loss of that dead weight, 

That I should grow light-headed, I fear. 

Fantastically merry ; 

But that her brother comes, like a blight 

On my fresh hope, to the Hall to-night. 



A MONODRAMA. 187 



XX. 



Strange, that I felt so gay, 
Strange, that / tried to-day 
To beguile her melancholy ; 
The Sultan, as we name him, — 
She did not wish to blame him — 
But he vext her and perplext her 
With his worldly talk and folly : 
Was it gentle to reprove her 
For stealing out of view 
From a little lazy lover 
Who but claims her as his due? 
Or for chilling his caresses 
By the coldness of her manners. 
Nay, the plainness of her dresses? 
Now I know her but in two, 
Nor can pronounce upon it 
If one should ask me whether 
The habit, hat, and feather. 
Or the frock and gipsy bonnet 
Be the neater and completer; 
For nothing can be sweeter 
Than maiden Maud in either. 



188 MA UD ; 

II. 

But to-morrow, if we live, 
Our ponderous squire will give 
A grand political dinner 
To half the squirelings near ; 
And Maud will wear her jewels, 
And the bird of prey will hover, 
And the titmouse hope to win her 
With his chirrup at her ear. 

III. 

A grand political dinner 

To the men of many acres, 

A gathering of the Tory, 

A dinner and then a dance 

For the maids and marriage-makers, 

And every eye but mine will glance 

At Maud in all her glory. 

IV. 

For I am not invited, 

But, with the Sultan's pardon, 

I am as well delighted. 

For I know her own rose-garden, 

And mean to linger in it 

Till the dancing will be over ; 

And then, oh then, come out to me 

For a minute, but for a minute. 

Come out to your own true lover. 



A MONODRAMA, 189 

That your true lover may see 
Your glory also, and render 
All homage to his own darling, 
Queen Maud in all her splendour. 



\ 



190 MAUD; 



XXI. 

Rivulet crossing my ground, 

And bringing me down from the Hall 

This garden-rose that I found, 

Forgetful of Maud and me, 

And lost in trouble and moving round 

Here at the head of a tinkling fall, 

And trying to pass to the sea ; 

O Rivulet, born at the Hall, 

My Maud has sent it by thee 

(If I read her sweet will right) 

On a blushing mission to me. 

Saying in odour and colour, " Ah, be 

Among the roses to-night." 



A MONODRAMA, 191 



XXII. 



Come into the garden, Maud, 

For the black bat, night, has flown, 

Come into the garden, Maud, 
I am here at the gate alone ; 

And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, 
And the musk of the rose is blown. 

II. 

For a breeze of morning moves. 
And the planet of Love is on high. 

Beginning to faint in the light that she loves 
On a bed of daifodil sky. 

To faint in the light of the sun she loves. 
To faint in his light, and to die. 

ni. 

All night have the roses heard 

The flute, violin, bassoon; 
All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd 

To the dancers dancing in tune ; 
Till a silence fell with the waking bird. 

And a hush with the setting moon. 



192 MAUD; 



IV. 



I said to the lily, " There is but one 

With whom she has heart to be gay. 
When will the dancers leave her alone? 

She is weary of dance and play." 
Now half to the setting moon are gone. 

And half to the rising day ; 
Low on the sand and loud on the stone 

The last wheel echoes away. 



I said to the rose, " The brief night goes 

In babble and revel and wine. 
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those, 

For one that will never be thine? 
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose, 

" For ever and ever, mine." 

VI. 

And the soul of the rose went into my blood, 

As the music clash'd in the hall ; 
And long by the garden lake I stood, 

For I heard your rivulet fall 
From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, 

Our wood, that is dearer than all ; 



VII. 

From the meadow your walks have left so sweet 
That whenever a March-wind sighs 



I 



A MONODRAMA, 193 

He sets the jewel-print of your feet 

In violets blue as your eyes, 
To the woody hollows in which me meet 

And the valleys of Paradise. 

VIII. 

The slender acacia would not shake 

One long milk-bloom on the tree ; 
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake 

As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; 
But the rose was awake all night for your sake, 

Knowing your promise to me ; 
The lilies and roses were all awake, 

They sigh'd for the dawn and thee. 

IX. 

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, 

Come hither, the dances are done, 
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, 

Queen lily and rose in one ; 
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, 

To the flowers, and be their sun. 



There has fallen a splendid tear 

From the passion-flower at the gate. 

She is coming, my dove, my dear; 
She is coming, my life, my fate ; 

The red rose cries, '' She is near, she is near ; ^' 
And the white rose weeps, " She is late ; " 



194 MAUD; 

The larkspur listens, " I hear, I hear ; " 
And the lily whispers, " I wait." 

XI. 

She is coming, my own, my sweet ; 

Were it ever so airy a tread, 
My heart would hear her and beat, 

Were it earth in an earthy bed ; 
My dust would hear her and beat. 

Had I lain for a century dead ; 
Would start and tremble under her feet. 

And blossom in purple and red. 



i 



A MONODRAMA, 195 



PART II. 

« 

I. 

I. 

*' The fault was mine, the fault was mine" — 

Why am I sitting here so stunn'd and still, 

Plucking the harmless wild-flower on the hill? — 

It is this guilty hand ! — 

And there rises ever a passionate cry 

From underneath in the darkening land — 

What is it, that has been done? 

O dawn of Eden bright over earth and sky, 

The fires of Hell brake out of thy rising sun, 

The fires of Hell and of Hate ; 

For she, sweet soul, had hardly spoken a word, 

When her brother ran in his rage to the gate, 

He came with the babe-faced lord ; 

Heap'd on her terms of disgrace, 

And while she wept, and I strove to be cool, 

He fiercely gave me the lie. 

Till I with as fierce an anger spoke, 

And he struck me, madman, over the face, 

Struck me before the languid fool, 

Who was gaping and grinning by : 

Struck for himself an evil stroke ; 

Wrought for his house an irredeemable woe ; 



196 MAUD; 

For front to front in an hour we stood, 
And a million horrible bellowing echoes broke 
From the red-ribb'd hollow behind the wood, 
And thundered up into Heaven the Christless code, 
That must have life for a blow. 
Ever and ever afresh they seemM to grow. ♦ 

Was it he lay there with a fading eye? 
" The fault was mine," he whispered, " fly !" 
Then glided out of the joyous wood 
The ghastly Wraith of one that I know ; 
And there rang on a sudden a passionate cry, 
A cry for a brother^s blood : 

It will ring in my heart and my ears, till I die, till I 
die. 

n. 

Is it gone ? my pulses beat — 

What was it.? a lying trick of the brain? 

Yet I thought I saw her stand, 

A shadow there at my feet, 

High over the shadowy land. 

It is gone ; and the heavens fall in a gentle rain. 

When they should burst and drown with deluging 

storms 
The feeble vassals of wine and anger and lust, 
The little hearts that know not how to forgive : 
Arise, my God, and strike, for w^e hold Thee just, 
Strike dead the whole weak race of venomous 

worms, 
That sting each other here in the dust ; 
We are not worthy to live. 



A MONODRAMA, 197 



IL 



See what a lovely shell, 
Small and pure as a pearl, 
Lying close to my foot, 
Frail, but a work divine. 
Made so fairily well 
With delicate spire and whorl, 
How exquisitely minute, 
A miracle of design ! 

II. 

What is it? a learned man 
Could give it a clumsy name. 
Let him name it who can. 
The beauty would be the same. 

III. 

The tiny cell is forlorn, 
Void of the little living will 
That made it stir on the shore. 
Did he stand at the diamond door 
Of his house in a rainbow frill? 
Did he push, when he was uncurPd, 



198 MA UD ; 

A golden foot or a fairy horn 
Thro' his dim water-world? 



IV. 

Slight, to be crushed with a tap 
Of my finger-nail on the sand. 
Small, but a work divine, 
Frail, but of force to withstand. 
Year upon year, the shock 
Of cataract seas that snap 
The three-decker-s oaken spine 
Athwart the ledges of rock, 
Here on the Breton strand! 



Breton, not Briton ; here 

Like a shipwrecked man on a coast 

Of ancient fable and fear — 

Plagued with a flitting to and fro, 

A disease, a hard mechanic ghost 

That never came from on high 

Nor ever arose from below, 

But only moves with the moving eye, 

Flying along the land and the main — 

Why should it look like Maud? 

Am I to be overawed 

By what I cannot but know 

Is a juggle born of the brain ? 



A MONODRAMA. 199 

VI. 

Back from the Breton coast, 

Sick of a nameless fear, 

Back to the dark sea-line 

Looking, thinking of all I have lost ; 

An old song vexes my ear ; 

But that of Lamech is mine. 

VII. 

For years, a measureless ill, 
For years, for ever, to part — 
But she, she would love me still ; 
And as long, O God, as she 
Have a grain of love for me, 
So long, no doubt, no doubt, 
Shall I nurse in my dark heart, 
However weary, a spark of will 
Not to be trampled out. 

VIII. 

Strange, that the mind, when fraught 
With a passion so intense 
One would think that it well 
Might drown all life in the eye, — 
That it should, by being so overwrought, 
Suddenly strike on a sharper sense 
For a shell, or a flower, little things 
Which else would have been past by ! 
And now I remember, I, 



200 MAUD; 

When he lay dying there, 

I noticed one of his many rings 

(For he had many, poor worm) and thought 

It is his mother's hair. 



IX. 

Who knows if he be dead ? 

Whether I need have fled? 

Am I guilty of blood ? 

However this may be, 

Comfort her, comfort her, all things good, 

While I am over the sea ! 

Let me and my passionate love go by. 

But speak to her all things holy and high, 

Whatever happen to me ! 

Me and my harmful love go by ; 

But come to her waking, find her asleep. 

Powers of the height, Powers of the deep, 

And comfort her tho' I die. 



A MONODRAMA. 201 



\ 



III. 

Courage, poor heart of stone ! 

I will not ask thee why 

Thou canst not understand 

That thou art left for ever alone : 

Courage, poor stupid heart of stone. — 

Or if I ask thee why, 

Care not thou to reply : » 

She is but dead, and the time is at hand 

When thou shalt more than die. 



202 MAUD: 



IV. 



O that 'twere possible 

After long grief and pain 

To find the arms of my true love 

Round me once again ! 



II. 

When I was wont to meet her 
In the silent woody places 
By the home that gave me birth, 
We stood tranced in long embraces 
Mixt with kisses sweeter sweeter 
Than anything on earth. 



III. 

A shadow flits before me, 

Not thou, but like to thee : 

Ah Christ, that it were possible 

For one short hour to see 

The souls we loved, that they might tell us 

What and where they be. 



A MONODRAMA, 203 



IV. 



It leads me forth at evening. 

It lightly winds and steals 

In a cold white robe before me. 

When all my spirit reels 

At the shouts, the leagues of lights, 

And the roaring of the wheels. 

V. 

Half the night I waste in sighs, 
Half in dreams I sorrow after 
The delight of early skies ; 
In a wakeful doze I sorrow 
For the hand, the lips, the eyes. 
For the meeting of the morrow, 
The delight of happy laughter, 
The delight of low replies. 



VI. 

^Tis a morning pure and sweet. 
And a dewy splendour falls 
On the little flower that clings 
To the turrets and the walls ; 
'Tis a morning pure and sweet, 
And the light and shadow fleet; 
She is walking in the meadow, 
And the woodland echo rings ; 
In a moment we shall meet ; 
She is singing in the meadow 



204 MAUD; 

And the rivulet at her feet 
Ripples on in light and shadow 
To the ballad that she sings. 

VII. 

Do I hear her sing as of old, 

My bird with the shining head, 

My own dove with the tender eye? 

But there rings on a sudden a passionate cry, 

There is some one dying or dead, 

And a sullen thunder is rolPd ; 

For a tumult shakes the city, 

And I wake, my dream is fled ; 

In the shuddering dawn, behold. 

Without knowledge, without pity, 

By the curtains of my bed 

That abiding phantom cold. 

VIII. 

Get thee hence, nor come again, 
Mix not memory with doubt, 
Pass, thou deathlike type of pain, 
Pass and cease to move about! 
'Tis the blot upon the brain 
That will show itself without. 



IX, 



Then I rise, the eavedrops fall, 
And the yellow vapours choke 
The great city sounding wide ; 



A MONODRAMA. 205 



The day comes, a dull red ball 
Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke 
On the misty river-tide. 



Thro' the hubbub of the market 

I steal, a wasted frame, 

It crosses here, it crosses there, 

Thro' all that crowd confused and loud. 

The shadow still the same ; 

And on my heavy eyelids 

My anguish hangs like shame. 

XI. 

Alas for her that met me, 

That heard me softly call, 

Came glimmering thro' the laurels 

At the quiet evenfall. 

In the garden by the turrets 

Of the old manorial hall. 

XII. 

Would the happy spirit descend, 
From the realms of light and song, 
In the chamber or the street, 
As she looks among the blest. 
Should I fear to greet my friend 
Or to say ^' Forgive the wrong," 
Or to ask her, "Take me, sweet, 
To the regions of thy rest " ? 



206 MAUD 



XIII. 



But the broad light glares and beats, 

And the shadow flits and fleets 

And will not let me be ; 

And I loathe the squares and streets, 

And the faces that one meets, 

Hearts with no love for me : 

Always I lon^- to creep 

Into some still cavern deep, 

There to weep, and weep, and weep 

My whole soul out to thee. 



A MONODRAMA, 207 



I. 

Dead, long dead, 

Long dead ! 

And my heart is a handful of dust, 

And the wheels go over my head, 

And my bones are shaken with pain, 

For into a shallow grave they are thrust, 

Only a yard beneath the street, 

And the hoofs of the horses beat, beat. 

The hoofs of the horses beat, 

Beat into my scalp and my brain, 

With never an end to the stream of passing feet. 

Driving, hurrying, marrying, burying, 

Clamour and rumble, and ringing and clatter, 

And here beneath it is all as bad, 

For I thought the dead had peace, but it is not so ; 

To have no peace in the grave, is that not sad? 

But up and down and to and fro. 

Ever about me the dead men go ; 

And then to hear a dead man chatter 

Is enough to drive one mad. 



II. 



Wretchedest age, since Time began, 
They cannot even bury a man ; 



208 MAUD; 

And tho' we paid our tithes in the days that are 

gone, 
Not a bell was rung, not a prayer was read ; 
It is that which makes us loud in the world of the 

dead ; 
There is none that does his work, not one ; 
A touch of their office might have sufficed, 
But the churchmen fain would kill their church, 
As the churches have kilPd their Christ. 

HI. 

See, there is one of us sobbing, 

No limit to his distress ; 

And another, a lord of all things, praying 

To his own great self, as I guess ; 

And another, a statesman there, betraying 

His party-secret, fool, to the press ; 

And yonder a vile physician, blabbing 

The case of his patient — all for what ? 

To tickle the maggot born in an empty head, 

And wheedle a world that loves him not, 

For it is but a world of the dead. 



IV. 

Nothing but idiot gabble ! 

For the prophecy given of old 

And then not understood, 

Has come to pass as foretold ; 

Not let any man think for the public good. 

But babble, merely for babble. 



A MONODRAMA. 209 

For I never whispered a private affair 

Within the hearing of cat or mouse, 

No, not to myself in the closet alone. 

But I heard it shouted at once from the top of the 

house ; 
Everything came to be known. 
Who told him we were there ? 



Not that gray old wolf, for he came not back 
From the wilderness, full of wolves, where he used 

to lie ; 
He has gathered the bones for his overgrown whelp 

to crack ; 
Crack them now for yourself, and howl, and die. 

VI. 

Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip, 

And curse me the British vermin, the rat ; 

I know not whether he came in the Hanover ship, 

But I know that he lies and listens mute 

In an ancient mansion's crannies and holes : 

Arsenic, arsenic, sure, would do it, 

Except that now we poison our babes, poor souls ! 

It is all used up for that. 

VII. 

Tell him now : she is standing here at my head ; 
Not beautiful now, not even kind ; 



210 MAUD; 

He may take her now; for she never speaks her 

mind, 
But is ever the one thing silent here. 
She is not of us, as I divine ; 
She comes from another stiller world of the dead, 
Stiller, not fairer than mine. 

VIII. 

But I know where a garden grows, 

Fairer than aught in the world beside, 

All made up of the lily and rose 

That blow by night, when the season is good, 

To the sound of dancing music and flutes : 

It is only flowers, they had no fruits, 

And I almost fear they are not roses, but blood ; 

For the keeper was one, so full of pride. 

He linkt a dead man there to a spectral bride ; 

For he, if he had not been a Sultan of brutes. 

Would he have that hole in his side? 

IX. 

But what will the old man say? 

He laid a cruel snare in a pit 

To catch a friend of mine one stormy day; 

Yet now I could even weep to think of it ; 

For what will the old man say 

When he comes to the second corpse in the pit? 

X. 

Friend, to be struck by the pubhc foe. 
Then to strike him and lay him low. 



A MONODRAMA, 211 

That were a public merit, far, 
Whatever the Quaker holds, from sin ; 
But the red life spilt for a private blow — 
I swear to you, lawful and lawless war 
Are scarcely even akin. 

XI. 

me, why have they not buried me deep enough ? 
Is it kind to have made me a grave so rough, 
Me, that was never a quiet sleeper? 

Maybe still I am but half-dead ; 
Then I cannot be wholly dumb ; 

1 will cry to the steps above my head, 

And somebody, surely, some kind heart will come 
To bury me, bury me 
Deeper, ever so little deeper. 



212 MAUD; 



PART III. 

VI. 

I. 

My life has crept so long on a broken wing 
Thro^ cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear, 
That I come to be grateful at last for a little thing : 
My mood is changed, for it fell at a time of year 
When the face of night is fair on the dewy downs, 
And the shining daffodil dies, and the Charioteer 
And starry Gemini hang like glorious crowns 
Over Orion's grave low down in the west. 
That like a silent lightning under the stars 
She seem'd to divide in a dream from a band of the 

blest, 
And spoke of a hope for the world in the coming 

wars — 
"And in that hope, dear soul, let trouble have rest, 
Knowing I tarry for thee," and pointed to Mars 
As he glow'd like a ruddy shield on the Lion's 

breast. 

II. 

And it was but a dream, yet it yielded a dear 
delight 



A MONODRAMA. 213 

To have looked, tho' but in a dream, upon eyes so 

fair, 
That had been in a weary world my one thing 

bright ; 
And it was but a dream, yet it lightened my despair 
When I thought that a war would arise in defence 

of the right, 
That an iron tyranny now should bend or cease, 
The glory of manhood stand on his ancient 

height, 
Nor Britain's one sole God be the milli'onaire : 
No more shall commerce be all in all, and Peace 
Pipe oa her pastoral hillock a languid note, 
And watch her harvest ripen, her herd increase, 
Nor the cannon-bullet rust on a slothful shore, 
And the cobweb woven across the cannon's throat 
Shall shake its threaded tears in the wind no 

more. 



III. 

And as months ran on and rumour of battle grew, 
" It is time, it is time, O passionate heart," said I 
(For I cleaved to a cause that I felt to be pure and 

true), 
" It is time, O passionate heart and morbid eye, 
That old hysterical mock-disease should die." 
And I stood on a giant deck and mix'd my breath 
With a loyal people shouting a battle cry. 
Till I saw the dreary phantom arise and fly 
Far into the North, and battle, and seas of death. 



214 MAUD; 



IV. 



Let it go or stay, so I wake to the higher aims 
Of a land that has lost for a little her lust of gold, 
And love of a peace that was full of wrongs and 

shames 
Horrible, hateful, monstrous, not to be told ; 
And hail once more to the banner of batde unrolPd ! 
Tho' many a light shall darken, and many shall weep 
For those that are crushed in the clash of jarring 

claims, 
Yet God's just wrath shall be wreak'd on a giant 

liar; 
And many a darkness into the light shall leap, 
And shine in the sudden making of splendid names, 
And noble thought be freer under the sun. 
And the heart of a people beat with one desire ; 
For the peace, that I deem'd no peace, is over and 

done, 
And now by the side of the Black and the Baltic 

deep, 
And deathful-grinning mouths of the fortress, flames 
The blood-red blossorn of war with a heart of fire. 

V. 

Let it flame or fade, and the war roll down like a 
wind. 

We have proved we have hearts in a cause, we are 
noble still, 

And myself have awaked, as it seems, to the bet- 
ter mind ; 



A MONODRAMA. 215 

It is better to fight for the good than to rail at the 

ill; 

I have felt with my native land, I am one with my 

kind, 
I embrace the purpose of God, and the doom 

assigned. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm ; 
And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands ; 
Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf 
In cluster ; then a moulder'd church ; and higher 
A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd mill ; 
And high in heaven behind it a gray down 
With Danish barrows ; and a hazelwood, 
By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes 
Green in a cuplike hollow of the down. 

Here on this beach a hundred years ago, 
Three children of three houses, Annie Lee, 
The prettiest litde damsel in the port, 
And Philip Ray the miller's only son, 
And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad 
Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play'd 
Among the waste and lumber of the shore, 
Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets. 
Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats updrav^rn ; 
And built their castles of dissolving sand 
To watch them overflow'd, or following up 



218 ENOCH ARDEN, 

« 
And flying the white breaker, daily left 

The little footprint daily wash'd away. 

A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff: 
In this the children playM at keeping house. 
Enoch was host one day, Philip the next, 
While Annie still was mistress ; but at times 
Enoch would hold possession for a week : 
"This is my house and this my little wife." 
" Mine too " said Philip " turn and turn about : " 
When, if they quarrelPd, Enoch stronger-made 
Was master: then would Philip, his blue eyes 
All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears, 
Shriek out " I hate you, Enoch,'' and at this 
The little wife would weep for company, 
And pray them not to quarrel for her sake, 
And say she would be little wife to both. 

But when the dawn of rosy childhood past, 
And the new warmth of life's ascending sun 
Was felt by either, either fixt his heart 
On that one girl ; and Enoch spoke his love, 
But Philip loved in silence ; and the girl 
Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to him ; 
But she loved Enoch ; tho' she knew it not, 
And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch set 
A purpose evermore before his eyes. 
To hoard all savings to the uttermost, 
To purchase his own boat, and make a home 
For Annie : and so prospered that at last 
A luckier or a bolder fisherman. 



ENOCH ARDEN. lY) 

A carefuller in peril, did not breathe 

For leagues along that breaker-beaten coast 

Than Enoch. Likewise had he served a year 

On board a merchantman, and made himself 

Full sailor ; and he thrice had pluck'd a life 

From the dread sweep of the down-streaming seas : 

And all men lookM upon him favourably : 

And ere he touch'd his one-and-twentieth May 

He purchased his own boat, and made a home 

For Annie, neat and nestlike, halfway up 

The narrow street that clamber'd toward the mill. 

Then, on a golden autumn eventide, 
The younger people making holiday, 
With bag and sack and basket, great and small, 
Went nutting to the hazels. Phihp stayed 
(His father lying sick and needing him) 
An hour behind ; but as he climb'd the hill, 
Just where the prone edge of the wood began 
To feather toward the hollow, saw the pair, 
Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-hand, 
His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face 
All-kindled by a still and sacred fire. 
That burnxl as on an altar. Philip looked, 
And in their eyes and flices read his doom ; 
Then, as their faces drew together, groan'd, 
And slipt aside, and like a wounded life 
Crept down into the hollows of the wood ; 
There, while the rest were loud in merrymaking- 
Had his dark hour unseen, and rose and past 
Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart. 



220 ENOCH ARDEN. 

So these were wed, and merrily rang the bells, 
And merrily ran the years, seven happy years, 
Seven happy years of health and competence, 
And mutual love and honourable toil ; 
With children ; first a daughter. In him woke, 
With his first babe's first cry, the noble wish 
To save all earnings to the uttermost, 
And give his child a better bringing-up 
Than his had been, or hers ; a wish renew'd, 
When two years after came a boy to be 
The rosy idol of her solitudes. 
While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas. 
Or often journeying landward ; for in truth 
Enoch's white horse, and Enoch's ocean-spoil 
In ocean-smelling osier, and his face, 
Rough-redden'd with a thousand winter gales, 
Not only to the market-cross were known. 
But in the leafy lanes behind the down, 
Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp, 
And peacock-yewtree of the lonely Hall, 
Whose Friday fare was Enoch's ministering. 

Then came a change, as all things human change. 
Ten miles to northward of the narrow port 
Open'd a larger haven : thither used 
Enoch at times to go by land or sea ; 
And once when there, and clambering on a mast 
In harbour, by mischance he slipt and fell : 
A limb was broken when they lifted him ; 
And while he lay recovering there, his wife 
Bore him another son, a sickly one : 



ENOCH ARDEN. Ill 

Another hand crept too across his trade 

Taking her bread and theirs : and on him fell, 

Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing man, 

Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom. 

He seem'd, as in a nightmare of the night, 

To see his children leading evermore 

Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth. 

And her, he loved, a beggar : then he pray'd 

" Save them from this, whatever comes to me." 

And while he pray'd, the master of that ship 

Enoch had served in, hearing his mischance. 

Came, for he knew the man and valued him. 

Reporting of his vessel China-bound, 

And wanting yet a boatswain. Would he go? 

There yet were many weeks before she saiPd, 

SaiPd from this port. Would Enoch have the place ? 

And Enoch all at once assented to it. 

Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer. 

So now that shadow of mischance appeared 
No graver than as when some little cloud 
Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun, 
And isles a light in the offing: yet the wife — 
When he was gone — the children — what to do? 
Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his plans ; 
To sell the boat — and yet he loved her well — 
How many a rough sea had he weather'd in her ! 
He knew her, as a horseman knows his horse — 
And yet to sell her — then with what she brought 
Buy goods and stores — set Annie forth in trade 
With all that seamen needed or their wives — 



222 ENOCH ARDEN. 

So might she keep the house while he was gone. 
Should he not trade himself out yonder? go 
This voyage more than once? yea twice or thrice 
As oft as needed — last, returning rich, 
Become the master of a larger craft, 
With fuller profits lead an easier life, 
Have all his pretty young ones educated, 
And pass his days in peace among his own. 

Thus Enoch in his heart determined all : 
Then moving homeward came on Annie pale, 
Nursing the sickly babe, her latest-born. 
Forward she started with a happy cry. 
And laid the feeble infant in his arms ; 
Whom Enoch took, and handled all his limbs, 
Appraised his weight and fondled fatherlike. 
But had no heart to break his purposes 
To Annie, till the morrow, when he spoke. 



Then first since Enoch's golden ring had girt 
Her finger, Annie fought against his will : 
Yet not with brawling opposition she. 
But manifold entreaties, many a tear. 
Many a sad kiss by day by night renewed 
(Sure that all evil would come out of it) 
Besought him, supplicating, if he cared 
For her or his dear children, not to go. 
He not for his own self caring but her. 
Her and her children, let her plead in vain ; 
So grieving held his will, and bore it thro\ 



ENOCH ARDEN. 223 

For Enoch parted with his old sea-friend, 
Bought Annie goods and stores, and set his hand 
To fit their little streetward sitting-room 
With shelf and corner for the goods and stores. 
So all day long till Enoch's last at home. 
Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and axe. 
Auger and saw, while Annie seem'd to hear 
Her own death-scaffold raising, shrilPd and rang. 
Till this was ended, and his careful hand, — 
The space was narrow, — having ordered all 
Almost as neat and close as Nature packs 
Her blossom or her seedling, paused ; and he, 
Who needs would work for Annie to the last, 
Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn. 

And Enoch faced this morning of farewell 
Brightly and boldly. All his Annie's fears. 
Save, as his Annie's, were a laughter to him. 
Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man 
Bow'd himself down, and in that mystery 
Where God-in-man is one with man-in-God, 
Pray'd for a blessing on his wife and babes 
Whatever came to him : and then he said 
" Annie, this voyage by the grace of God 
Will bring fair weather yet to all of us. 
Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for me, 
For I'll be back, my girl, before you know it." 
Then lightly rocking baby's cradle " and he, 
This pretty, puny, weakly little one, — 
Nay — for I love him all the better for it — 
God bless him, he shall sit upon my knees 



224 ENOCH ARDEN. 

And I will tell him tales of foreign parts, 

And make him merry, when I come home again. 

Come, Annie, come, cheer up before I go." 

Him running on thus hopefully she heard, 
And almost hoped herself; but when he turn'd 
The current of his talk to graver things 
In sailor fashion roughly sermonizing 
On providence and trust in Heaven, she heard, 
Heard and not heard him ; as the village girl, 
Who sets her pitcher underneath the spring, 
Musing on him that used to fill it for her, 
Hears and not hears, and lets it overflow. 

At length she spoke " O Enoch, you are wise ; 
And yet for all your wisdom well know I 
That I shall look upon your face no more." 

*' Well then," said Enoch, " I shall look on yours, 
Annie, the ship I sail in passes here 
(He named the day) get you a seaman's glass, 
Spy out my face, and laugh at all your fears." 

But when the last of those last moments came, 
"Annie, my girl, cheer up, be comforted. 
Look to the babes, and till I come again 
Keep everything shipshape, for I must go. 
And fear no more for me ; or if you fear 
Cast all your cares on God ; that anchor holds. 
Is He not yonder in those uttermost 
Parts of the morning? if I flee to these 



ENOCH ARDEN, 225 

Can I go from Him? and the sea is His, 
The sea is His : He made it." 

Enoch rose, 
Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife, 
And kissed his wonder-stricken little ones ; 
But for the third, the sickly one, who slept 
After a night of feverous wakefulness, 
When Annie would have raised him Enoch said 
" Wake him not ; let him sleep ; how should the 

child 
Remember this?" and kiss'd him in his cot. 
But Annie from her baby's forehead dipt 
A tiny curl, and gave it : this he kept 
Thro' all his future ; but now hastily caught 
His bundle, waved his hand, and went his way. 

She when the day, that Enoch mentioned, came, 
Borrowed a glass, but all in vain : perhaps 
She could not fix the glass to suit her eye ; 
Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous ; 
She saw him not : and while he stood on deck 
Waving, the moment and the vessel past. 

Ev'n to the last dip of the vanishing sail 
She watch'd it, and departed weeping for him ; 
Then, tho' she mourn'd his absence as his grave. 
Set her sad will no less to chime with his, 
But throve not in her trade, not being bred 
To barter, nor compensating the want 
By shrewdness, neither capable of lies, 



226 ENOCH ARDEN. 

Nor asking overmuch and taking less, 
And still foreboding ''what would Enoch say?" 
For more than once, in days of difficulty 
And pressure, had she sold her wares for less 
Than what she gave in buying what she sold : 
She faiPd and sadden'd knowing it ; and thus, 
Expectant of that news which never came, 
Gain'd for her own a scanty sustenance, 
And lived a life of silent melancholy. 

Now the third child was sickly-born and grew 
Yet sicklier, tho^ the mother cared for it 
With all a mother^s care : nevertheless, 
Whether her business often calPd her from it, 
Or thro' the want of what it needed most, 
Or means to pay the voice who best could tell 
What most it needed — howso'er it was. 
After a lingering, — ere she was aware, — 
Like the caged bird escaping suddenly, 
The little innocent soul flitted away. 

In that same week when Annie buried it, 
Philip's true heart, which hunger'd for her peace 
(Since Enoch left he had not look'd upon her), 
Smote him, as having kept aloof so long. 
" Surely," said Phihp, " I may see her now, 
May be some little comfort ; " therefore went, 
Past thro' the soHtary room in front. 
Paused for a moment at an inner door. 
Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening, 
Enter'd ; but Annie, seated with her grief, 



ENOCH ARDEN. 227 

Fresh from the burial of her little one, 
Cared not to look on any human face, 
But turn'd her own toward the wall and wept. 
Then Philip standing up said falteringly 
" Annie, I came to ask a favour of you." 

He spoke ; the passion in her moan'd reply 
*' Favour from one so sad and so forlorn 
As I am ! " half abash'd him ; yet unask'd. 
His bashfulness and tenderness at war, 
He set himself beside her, saying to her : 

" I came to speak to you of what he wish'd, 
Enoch, your husband : I have ever said 
You chose the best among us — a strong man : 
For where he fixt his heart he set his hand 
To do the thing he wilPd, and bore it thro\ 
And wherefore did he go this weary way, 
And leave you lonely? not to see the world — 
For pleasure? — nay, but for the wherewithal 
To give his babes a better bringing-up 
Than his had been, or yours : that was his wish. 
And if he come again, vext will he be 
To find the precious morning hours were lost. 
And it would vex him even in his grave, 
If he could know his babes were running wild 
Like colts about the waste. So, Annie, now — 
Have we not known each other all our lives ? 
I do beseech you by the love you bear 
Him and his children not to say me nay — 
For, if you will, when Enoch comes again 



228 ENOCH ARDEN, 

Why then he shall repay me — if you will, 
Annie — for I am rich and well-to-do. 
Now let me put the boy and girl to school : 
This is the favour that I came to ask." 

Then Annie with her brows against the wall 
Answer'd " I cannot look you in the face ; 
I seem so foolish and so broken down. 
When you came in my sorrow broke me down ; 
And now I think your kindness breaks me down ; 
But Enoch lives ; that is borne in on me : 
He will repay you : money can be repaid ; 
Not kindness such as yours." 

And Philip ask'd 
" Then you will let me, Annie? " 

There she turn'd, 
She rose, and fixt her swimming eyes upon him, 
And dwelt a moment on his kindly face. 
Then calling down a blessing on his head 
Caught at his hand, and wrung it passionately. 
And past into the little garth beyond. 
So lifted up in spirit he moved away. 

Then Philip put the boy and girl to school. 
And bought them needful books, and everyway. 
Like one who does his duty by his own, 
Made himself theirs ; and tho^ for Annie's sake, 
Fearing the lazy gossip of the port, 
He oft denied his heart his dearest wish, 



ENOCH ARDEN. 229 

And seldom crost her threshold, yet he sent 
Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and fruit, 
The late and early roses from his wall. 
Or conies from the down, and now and then, 
With some pretext of fineness in the meal 
To save the offence of charitable, flour 
From his tall mill that whistled on the waste. 

But Philip did not fathom Annie's mind : 
Scarce could the woman when he came upon her, 
Out of full heart and boundless gratitude 
Light on a broken word to thank him with. 
But Philip was her children's all-in-all ; 
From distant corners of the street they ran 
To greet his hearty welcome heartily ; 
Lords of his house and of his mill were they ; 
Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs 
Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd with him 
And calPd him Father Philip. Philip gain'd 
As Enoch lost ; for Enoch seem'd to them 
Uncertain as a vision or a dream, 
Faint as a figure seen in early dawn 
Down at the far end of an avenue. 
Going we know not where : and so ten years. 
Since Enoch left his hearth and native land. 
Fled forward, and no news of Enoch came. 

It chanced one evening Annie's children long'd 
To go with others, nutting to the wood. 
And Annie would go with them ; then they begg'd 
For Father Philip (as they calPd him) too : 



230 ENOCH ARDEN, 

Him, like the working bee in blossom-dust, 
Blanched with his mill, they found ; and saying to 

him 
" Come with us, Father PhiHp " he denied ; 
But when the children pluck'd at him to go, 
He laugh'd, and yielded readily to their wish, 
For was not Annie with them? and they went. 

But after scaling half the weary down. 
Just where the prone edge of the wood began 
To feather toward the hollow, all her force 
FaiPd her ; and sighing, *' Let me rest " she said : 
So Philip rested with her well-content ; 
While all the younger ones with jubilant cries 
Broke from their elders, and tumultuously 
Down thro' the whitening hazels made a plunge 
To the bottom, and dispersed, and bent or broke 
The lithe reluctant boughs to tear away 
Their tawny clusters, crying to each other 
And calling, here and there, about the wood. 

But Philip sitting at her side forgot 
Her presence, and remembered one dark hour 
Here in this wood, when like a wounded life 
He crept into the shadow : at last he said, 
Lifting his honest forehead, " Listen, Annie, 
How merry they are down yonder in the wood. 
Tired, Annie .'^^ for she did not speak a word. 
"Tired?" but her face had falPn upon her 

hands ; 
At which, as with a kind of anger in liim. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 231 

" The ship was lost," he said, " the ship was lost ! 
No more of that ! why should you kill yourself 
And make them orphans quite ? " And Annie 

said 
" I thought not of it : but — I know not why — 
Their voices make me feel so solitary."" 

Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke. 
^' Annie, there is a thing upon my mind, 
And it has been upon my mind so long. 
That tho' I know not when it first came there, 
1 know that it will out at last. O Annie, 
It is beyond all hope, against all chance. 
That he who left you ten long years ago 
Should still be living; well then — let me speak: 
I grieve to see you poor and wanting help : 
I cannot help you as I wish to do 
Unless — they say that women are so quick — 
Perhaps you know what I would have you know — 
I wish you for my wife. I fain would prove 
A father to your children : I do think 
They love me as a father : I am sure 
That I love them as if they were mine own ; 
And I believe, if you were fast my wife, 
That after all these sad uncertain years. 
We might be still as happy as God grants 
To any of his creatures. Think upon it : 
For I am well-to-do — no kin, no care, 
No burthen, save my care for you and yours: 
And we have known each other all our lives, 
And I have loved you longer than you know." 



232 ENOCH ARDEN. 

Then answered Annie ; tenderly she spoke : 
'' You have been as God's good angel in our house. 
God bless you for it, God reward you for it, 
Philip, with something happier than myself. 
Can one love twice ? can you be ever loved 
As Enoch was? what is it that you ask?" 
" I am content " he answered " to be loved 
A little after Enoch." '' O " she cried, 
Scared as it were, " dear Philip, wait a while : 
If Enoch comes — but Enoch will not come — 
Yet wait a year, a year is not so long : 
Surely I shall be wiser in a year : 

wait a little ! " Philip sadly said 
" Annie, as I have waited all my life 

1 well may wait a little." " Nay " she cried 

""I am bound : you have my promise — in a year : 
Will you not bide your year as I bide mine ? " 
And Philip answered " I will bide my year." 

Here both were mute, till Philip glancing up 
Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day 
Pass from the Danish barrow overhead ; 
Then fearing night and chill for Annie, rose 
And sent his voice beneath him thro' the wood. 
Up came the children laden with their spoil ; 
Then all descended to the port, and there 
At Annie's door he paused and gave his hand, 
Saying gently " Annie, when I spoke to you. 
That was your hour of weakness. I was wrong, 
I am always bound to you, but you are free." 
Then Annie weeping answer'd " I am bound." 



ENOCH ARDEN, 233 

She spoke ; and in one moment as it were, 
While yet she went about her household ways, 
Ev'n as she dwelt upon his latest words, 
That he had loved her longer than she knew, 
That autumn into autumn flashM again, 
And there he stood once more before her face. 
Claiming her promise. " Is it a year? " she ask'd. 
'' Yes, if the nuts " he said ^' be ripe again : 
Come out and see." But she — she put him off — 
So much to look to — such a change — a month — 
Give her a month — she knew that she was bound — 
A month — no more. Then Philip with his eyes 
Full of that lifelong hunger, and his voice 
Shaking a Httle like a drunkard's hand, 
" Take your own time, Annie, take your own time." 
And Annie could have wept for pity of him ; 
And yet she held him on delayingly 
With many a scarce-believable excuse, 
Trying his truth and his long-sufferance, 
Till half-another year had slipt away. 

By this the lazy gossips of the port, 
Abhorrent of a calculation crost, 
Began to chafe as at a personal wrong. 
Some thought that Philip did but trifle with her ; 
Some that she but held off to draw him on ; 
And others laugh'd at her and Philip too. 
As simple folk that knew not their own minds. 
And one, in whom all evil fancies clung 
Like serpent eggs together, laughingly 
Would hint at worse in either. Her own son 



234 ENOCH ARDEN, 

Was silent, tho' he often look'd his wish ; 

But evermore the daughter prest upon her 

To wed the man so dear to all of them 

And lift the household out of poverty ; 

And Philip's rosy face contracting grew 

Careworn and wan ; and all these things fell on 

her 
Sharp as reproach. 

At last one night it chanced 
That Annie could not sleep, but earnestly 
Pray'd for a sign " my Enoch is he gone ? " 
Then compassed round by the blind wall of night 
Brook'd not the expectant terror of her heart, 
Started from bed, and struck herself a light, 
Then desperately seized the holy Book, 
Suddenly set it wide to find a sign, 
Suddenly put her finger on the text, 
"Under the palm-tree." That was nothing to 

her : 
No meaning there : she closed the Book and slept : 
When lo : her Enoch sitting on a height. 
Under a palm-tree, over him the Sun : 
"He is gone," she thought, "he is happy, he is 

singing 
Hosanna in the highest : yonder shines 
The Sun of Righteousness, and these be palms 
Whereof the happy people strowing cried 
' Hosanna in the highest ! ' " Here she woke. 
Resolved, sent for him and said wildly to him 
" There is no reason why we should not wed." 



ENOCH ARDEN, 235 

"Then for God's sake," he answer'd, "both our 

sakes, 
So you will wed me, let it be at once." 

So these were wed and merrily rang the bells, 
Merrily rang the bells and they were wed. 
But never merrily beat Annie's heart. 
A footstep seem'd to fall beside her path, 
She knew not whence ; a whisper on her ear, 
She knew not what ; nor loved she to be left 
Alone at home, nor ventured out alone. 
What aiPd her then, that ere she enter'd, often 
Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch, 
P'earing to enter : Philip thought he knew : 
Such doubts and fears were common to her state, 
Being with child : but when her child was born, 
Then her new child was as herself renew'd, 
Then the new mother came about her heart, 
Then her good Philip was her all-in-all. 
And that mysterious instinct wholly died. 

And where was Enoch ? prosperously saiPd 
The ship " Good Fortune," tho' at setting forth 
The Biscay, roughly ridging eastward, shook 
And almost overwhelm'd her, yet unvext 
She slipt across the summer of the world, 
Then after a long tumble about the Cape 
And frequent interchange of foul and fair, 
She passing thro' the summer world again, 
The breath of heaven came continually 



236 ENOCH ARDEN, 

And sent her sweetly by the golden isles, 
Till silent in her oriental haven. 



There Enoch traded for himself, and bought 
Quaint monsters for the market of those times, 
A gilded dragon, also, for the babes. 

Less lucky her home-voyage : at first indeed 
Thro' many a fair sea-circle, day by day. 
Scarce-rocking, her full-busted figure-head 
Stared o'er the ripple feathering from her bows : 
Then followed calms, and then winds variable, 
Then baffling, a long course of them ; and last 
Storm, such as drove her under moonless heavens 
Till hard upon the cry of " breakers " came 
The crash of ruin, and the loss of all 
But Enoch and two others. Half the night, 
Buoy'd upon floating tackle and broken spars. 
These drifted, stranding on an isle at morn 
Rich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea. 

No want was there of human sustenance, 
Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nourishing roots ; 
Nor save for pity was it hard to take 
The helpless life so wild that it was tame. 
There in a seaward-gazing mountain-gorge 
They built, and thatchM with leaves of palm, a hut. 
Half hut, half native cavern. So the three, 
Set in this Eden of all plenteousness. 
Dwelt with eternal summer, ill-content. 



ENOCH ARDEN, 111 

For one, the youngest, hardly more than boy, 
Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and wreck, 
Lay lingering out a five-years^ death-in-life. 
They could not leave him. After he was gone. 
The two remaining found a fallen stem ; 
And Enoch's comrade, careless of himself. 
Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, fell 
Sun-stricken, and that other lived alone. 
In those two deaths he read God's warning " wait." 

The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawns 
And winding glades high up like ways to Heaven, 
The slender coco's drooping crown of plumes, 
The lightning flash of insect and of bird, 
The lustre of the long convolvuluses 
That coil'd around the stately stems, and ran 
Ev'n to the limit of the land, the glows 
And glories of the broad belt of the world, 
All these he saw ; but what he fain had seen 
He could not see, the kindly human face. 
Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard 
The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl, 
The league-long roller thundering on the reef, 
The moving whisper of huge trees that branch'd 
And blossom'd in the zenith, or the sweep 
Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave. 
As down the shore he ranged, or all day long 
Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge, 
A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a sail : 
No sail from day to day, but every day 
The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts 



238 ENOCH ARDEN. 

Among the palms and ferns and precipices ; 

The blaze upon the waters to the east ; 

The blaze upon his island overhead ; 

The blaze upon the waters to the west ; 

Then the great stars that globed themselves in 

Heaven, 
The hollower-bellowing ocean, and again 
The scarlet shafts of sunrise — but no sail. 



There often as he watch'd or seemM to watch, 
So still, the golden lizard on him paused, 
A phantom made of many phantoms moved 
Before him haunting him, or he himself 
Moved haunting people, things and places, known 
Far in a darker isle beyond the line ; 
The babes, their babble, Annie, the small house, 
The climbing street, the mill, the leafy lanes. 
The peacock-yewtree and the lonely Hall, 
The horse he drove, the boat he sold, the chill 
November dawns and dewy-glooming downs, 
The gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves, 
And the low moan of leaden-colour'd seas. 



Once likwise, in the ringing of his ears, 
Tho' faintly, merrily — far and far away — 
He heard the peeling of his parish bells ; 
Then, tho^ he knew not wherefore, started up 
Shuddering, and when the beauteous hateful isle 
ReturnM upon him, had not his poor heart 
Spoken with That, which being everywhere 



ENOCH ARDEN. 239 

Lets none, who speaks with Him, seem all alone, 
Surely the man had died of solitude. 

Thus over Enoch^s early-silvering head 
The sunny and rainy seasons came and went 
Year after year. His hopes to see his own, 
And pace the sacred old familiar fields, 
Not yet had perish'd, when his lonely doom 
Came suddenly to an end. Another ship 
(She wanted water) blown by baffling winds, 
Like the Good Fortune, from her destined course, 
Stay'd by this isle, not knowing where she lay : 
For since the mate had seen at early dawn 
Across a break on the mist-wreathen isle 
The silent water slipping from the hills, 
They sent a crew that landing burst away 
In search of stream or fount, and fill'd the shores 
With clamour. Downward from his mountain 

gorge 
Stept the long-hair'd long-bearded solitary. 
Brown, looking hardly human, strangely clad, 
Muttering and mumbling, idiotlike it seemed, 
With inarticulate rage, and making signs 
They knew not what : and yet he led the way 
To where the rivulets of sweet water ran ; 
And ever as he mingled with the crew, 
And heard them talking, his long-bounden tongue 
Was loosen'd, till he made them understand ; 
Whom, when their casks were filPd they took 

aboard : 
And there the tale he utterM brokenly, 



240 ENOCH ARDEN. 

Scarce-credited at first but more and more, 

Amazed and melted all who listen'd tc it : 

And clothes they gave him and free passage home ; 

But oft he workM among the rest and shook 

His isolation from him. None of these 

Came from his country, or could answer him, 

If question'd, aught of what he cared to know. 

And dull the voyage was 'with long delays, 

The vessel scarce sea-worthy ; but evermore 

His fancy fled before the lazy wind 

Returning, till beneath a clouded moon 

He like a lover down thro' all his blood 

Drew in the dewy meadowy morning-breath 

Of England, blown across her ghostly wall : 

And that same morning officers and men 

Levied a kindly tax upon themselves, 

Pitying the lonely man, and gave him it : 

Then moving up the coast they landed him, 

Ev'n in that harbour whence he saiPd before. 

There Enoch spoke no word to any one, 
But homeward — home — what home? had he a 

home ? 
His home, he walked. Bright was that afternoon, 
Sunny but chill ; till drawn thro' either chasm, 
Where either haven open'd on the deeps, 
Roird a sea-haze and whelm'd the world in gray ; 
Cut off the length of highway on before. 
And left but narrow breadth to left and right 
Of withered holt or tilth or pasturage. 
On the nigh-naked tree the robin piped 



ENOCH ARDEN, 241 

Disconsolate, and thro' the dripping haze 
The dead weight of the dead leaf bore it down : 
Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the gloom ; 
Last, as it seem'd, a great mist-blotted light 
Flared on him, and he came upon the place. 

Then down the long street having slowly stolen, 
His heart foreshadowing all calamity, 
His eyes upon the stones, he reachM the home 
Where Annie lived and loved him, and his babes 
In those far-off seven happy years were born ; 
But finding neither light nor murmur there 
(A bill of sale gleam'd thro' the drizzle) crept 
Still downward thinking '' dead or dead to me ! " 

Down to the pool and narrow wharf he went, 
Seeking a tavern which of old he knew, 
A front of timber-crost antiquity. 
So propt, worm-eaten, ruinously old. 
He thought it must have gone ; but he was gone 
Who kept it ; and his widow Miriam Lane, 
With daily-dwindling profits held the house ; 
A haunt of brawling seamen once, but now 
Stiller, with yet a bed for wandering men. 
There Enoch rested silent many days. 

But Miriam Lane was good and garrulous, 
Nor let him be, but often breaking in. 
Told him, with other annals of the port. 
Not knowing — Enoch was so brown, so bow'd, 
So broken — all the story of his house. 



242 ENOCH ARDEN. 

His baby's death, her growing poverty, 
How PhiHp put her little ones to school, 
And kept them in it, his long wooing her. 
Her slow consent, and marriage, and the birth 
Of Philip's child : and o'er his countenance 
No shadow past, nor motion : any one. 
Regarding, well had deem'd he felt the tale 
Less than the teller : only wlien she closed 
" Enoch, poor man, was cast away and lost " 
He, shaking his gray head pathetically. 
Repeated muttering " cast away and lost ; " 
Again in deeper inward whispers " lost ! " 

But Enoch yearn'd to see her face again ; 
" If I might look on her sweet face again 
And know that she is happy." So the thought 
Haunted and harassed him, and drove him forth, 
At evening when the dull November day 
Was growing duller twilight, to the hill. 
There he sat down gazing on all below ; 
There did a thousand memories roll upon him, 
Unspeakable for sadness. By and by 
The^ ruddy square of comfortable light. 
Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house, 
Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures 
The bird of passage, till he madly strikes 
Against it, and beats out his weary life. 

For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street. 
The latest house to landward ; but behind. 
With one small gate that open'd on the waste, 



ENOCH ARDEN. 243 

Flourished a little garden square and walPd : 
And in it throve an ancient evergreen, 
A yewtree, and all round it ran a walk 
Of shingle, and a walk divided it : 
But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk and stole 
Up by the wall, behind the yew; and thence 
That which he better might have shunn'd, if griefs 
Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw. 

For cups and silver on the burnishM board 
Sparkled and shone ; so genial was the hearth : 
And on the right hand of the hearth he saw 
Philip, the slighted suitor of old times. 
Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees ; 
And o'er her second father stoopt a girl, 
A later but a loftier Annie Lee, 
Fair-hair'd and tall, arid from her lifted hand 
Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring 
To tempt the babe, who reared his creasy arms, 
Caught at and ever missM it, and they laugh'd ; 
And on the left hand of the hearth he saw 
The mother glancing often toward her babe, 
But turning now and then to speak with him. 
Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong, 
And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled. 

Now when the dead man come to life beheld 
His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe 
Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee. 
And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness, 
And his own children tall and beautiful, 



244 ENOCH ARDEN. 

And him, that other, reigning in his place, 
Lord of his rights and of his children's love, — 
Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told him all, 
Because things seen are mightier than things heard, 
Stagger'd and shook, holding the branch, and fearM 
To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry, 
Which in one moment, like the blast of doom, 
Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth. 

He therefore turning softly like a thief, 
Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot, 
And feeling all along the garden-wall, 
Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found, 
Crept to the gate, and open'd it, and closed, 
As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door, 
Behind him, and came out upon the waste. 

And there he would have knelt, but that his knees 
Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug 
His fingers into the wet earth, and pray'd. 

" Too hard to bear ! why did they take me 
thence ? 
O God Almighty, blessed Saviour, Thou 
That didst uphold me on my lonely isle, 
Uphold me. Father, in my loneliness 
A little longer ! aid me, give me strength 
Not to tell her, never to let her know. 
Help me not to break in upon her peace. 
My children too ! must I not speak to these? 
They know me not. I should betray myself. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 245 

Never : No father's kiss for me — the girl 
So like her mother, and the boy, my son." 

There speech and thought and nature faiPd a 
little, 
And he lay tranced ; but when he rose and paced 
Back toward his solitary home again, 
All down the long and narrow street he went 
Beating it in upon his weary brain, 
As tho' it were the burthen of a song, 
<' Not to tell her, never to let her know." 

He was not all unhappy. His resolve 
Upbore him, and firm faith, and evermore 
Prayer from a living source within the will, 
And beating up thro' all the bitter world, 
Like fountains of sweet water in the sea. 
Kept him a living soul. *' This miller's wife" 
He said to Miriam *' that you spoke about. 
Has she no fear that her first husband lives ? " 
" Ay, ay, poor soul " said Miriam, ^' fear enow ! 
If you could tell her you had seen him dead, 
Why, that would be her comfort ; " and he thought 
" After the Lord has calPd me she shall know, 
I wait His time," and Enoch set himself. 
Scorning an alms, to work whereby to live. 
Almost to all things could he turn his hand. 
Cooper he was and carpenter, and wrought 
To make the boatmen fishing-nets, or help'd 
At lading and unlading the tall barks. 
That brought the stinted commerce of those days ; 



246 ENOCH ARDEN. 

Thus earn'd a scanty living for himself: 
Yet since he did but labour for himself, 
Work without hope, there was not life in it 
Whereby the man could live ; and as the year 
Roird itself round again to meet the day 
When Enoch had returned, a languor came 
Upon him, gentle sickness, gradually 
Weakening the man, till he could do no more, 
But kept the house, his chair, and last his bed. 
And Enoch bore his weakness cheerfully. 
For sure no gladlier does the stranded wreck 
See thro' the gray skirts of a lifting squall 
The boat that bears the hope of life approach 
To save the life despaired of, than he saw 
Death dawning on him, and the close of all. 

For thro' that dawning gleam'd a kindlier hope 
On Enoch thinking " after I am gone, 
Then may she learn I lov'd her to the last." 
He caird aloud for Miriam Lane and said 
"Woman, I have a secret — only swear, 
Before I tell you — swear upon the book 
Not to reveal it, till you see me dead." 
*' Dead," clamour'd the good woman, " hear him talk! 
I warrant, man, that we shall bring you round." 
" Swear," added Enoch sternly "on the book." 
And on the book, half-frighted, Miriam swore. 
Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon her, 
" Did you know Enoch Arden of this town ? " 
" Know him ? " she said " I knew him far away. 
Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the street ; 



ENOCH ARDEN. 247 

Held his head high, and cared for no man, he." 

Slowly and sadly Enoch answer'd her ; 

" His head is low, and no man cares for him. 

I think I have not three days more to live; 

I am the man." At which the woman gave 

A half-incredulous, half-hysterical cry. 

" You Arden, you ! nay, — sure he was a foot 

Higher than you be." Enoch said again 

" My God has bow'd me down to what I am ; 

My grief and solitude have broken me ; 

Nevertheless, know you that I am he 

Who married — but that name has twice been 

changed — 
I married her who married Philip Ray. 
Sit, listen." Then he told her of his voyage, 
His wreck, his lonely life, his coming back, 
His gazing in on Annie, his resolve, 
And how he kept it. As the woman heard, 
Fast flowM the current of her easy tears, 
While in her heart she yearn'd incessantly 
To rush abroad all round the little haven. 
Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes ; 
But awed and promise-bounden she forbore. 
Saying only " See your bairns before you go ! 
Eh, let me fetch 'em, Arden," and arose 
Eager to bring them down, for Enoch hung 
A moment on her words, but then replied : 

"Woman, disturb me not now at the last, 
But let me hold my purpose till I die. 
Sit down again ; mark me and understand, 



248 ENOCH ARDEN. 

While I have power to speak. I charge you now, 
When you shall see her, tell her that I died 
Blessing her, praying for her, loving her ; 
Save for the bar between us, loving her 
As when she laid her head beside my own. 
And tell my daughter Annie, whom I saw 
So like her mother, that my latest breath 
Was spent in blessing her and praying for her. 
And tell my son that I died blessing him. 
And say to Philip that I blest him too ; 
He never meant us any thing but good. 
But if my children care to see me dead, 
Who hardly knew me living, let them come, 
I am their father ; but she must not come, 
For my dead face would vex her after-life. 
And now there is but one of all my blood 
Who will embrace me in the world-to-be : 
This hair is his : she cut it off and gave it, 
And I have borne it with me all these years. 
And thought to bear it with me to my grave ; 
But now my mind is changed, for I shall see him, 
My babe in bliss : wherefore when I am gone, 
Take, give her this, for it may comfort her: 
It will moreover be a token to her, 
That I am he.*" 

He ceased ; and Miriam Lane 
Made such a voluble answer promising all, 
That once again he rolPd his eyes upon her 
Repeating all he wish'd, and once again 
She promised. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 249 

Then the third night after this, 
While Enoch slumber'd motionless and pale, 
And Miriam watchM and dozed at intervals, 
There came so loud a calling of the sea, 
That all the houses in the haven rano^. 
He woke, he rose, he spread his arms abroad 
Crying with a loud voice " A sail ! a sail ! 
I am saved ; " and so fell back and spoke no more. 

So past the strong heroic soul away. 
And when they buried him the little port 
Had seldom seen a costlier funeral. 



250 TO E. FITZGERALD. 



TO E. FITZGERALD. 

Old Fitz, who from your suburb grange, 

Where once I tarried for a while, 
Glance at the wheeling Orb of change. 

And greet it with a kindly smile ; 
Whom yet I see as there you sit 

Beneath your sheltering garden-tree. 
And watch your doves about you flit, 

And plant on shoulder, hand and knee, 
Or on your head their rosy feet, 

As if they knew your diet spares 
Whatever moved in that full sheet 

Let down to Peter at his prayers ; 
Who live on milk and meal and grass ; 

And once for ten long weeks I tried 
Your table of Pythagoras, 

And seem'd at first *'a thing enskied" 
(As Shakespeare has it) airy-light 

To float above the ways of men. 
Then fell from that half-spiritual height 

Chiird, till I tasted flesh again 
One night when earth was winter-black, 

And all the heavens flasliM in frost ; 
And on me, half-asleep, came back 

That wholesome heat the blood had lost, 
And set me climbing icy capes 



TO E. FITZGERALD. 251 

And glaciers, over which there rolPd 
To meet me long-arm'd vines with grapes 

Of Eshcol hugeness ; for the cold 
Without, and warmth within me, wrought 

To mould the dream ;• but none can say- 
That Lenten fare makes Lenten thought, 

Who reads your golden Eastern lay, 
Than which I know no version done 

In English more divinely well ; 
A planet equal to the sun 

Which cast it, that large infidel 
Your Omar ; and your Omar drew 

Full-handed plaudits from our best 
In modern letters, and from two. 

Old friends outvaluing all the rest, 
Two voices heard on earth no more ; 

But we old friends are still alive. 
And I am nearing seventy-four, 

While you have touchM at seventy-five. 
And so' I send a birthday line 

Of greeting; and my son, who dipt 
In some forgotten book of mine 

With sallow scraps of manuscript, 
And dating many a year ago, 

Has hit on this, which you will take 
My Fitz, and welcome, as I know 

Less for its own than for the sake 
Of one recalling gracious times, 

When, in our younger London days, 
You found some merit in my rhymes, 

And I more pleasure in your praise. 



252 TIRESIAS. 



TIRESIAS. 

I WISH I were as in the years of old, 
While yet the blessed daylight made itself 
Ruddy thro' both the roofs of sight, and woke 
These eyes, now dull, but then so keen to seek 
The meanings ambush'd under all they saw, 
The flight of birds, the flame of sacrifice, 
What omens may foreshadow fate to man 
And woman, and the secret of the Gods. 

My son, the Gods, despite of human prayer, 
Are slower to forgive than human kings. 
The great God, Ares, burns in anger still 
Against the guiltless heirs of him from Tyre, 
Our Cadmus, out of whom thou art, who found 
Beside the springs of Dirce, smote, and still'd 
Thro' all its folds the multitudinous beast, 
The dragon, which our trembling fathers calPd 
The God's own son. 

A tale, that told to me. 
When but thine age, by age as winter-white 
As mine is now, amazed, but made me yearn 
For larger glimpses of that more than man 
Which rolls the heavens, and lifts, and lays the deep, 
Yet loves and hates with mortal hates and loves, 
And moves unseen among the ways of men. 



TIRESIAS, 253 

Then, in my wanderings all the lands that lie 
Subjected to the Heliconian ridge 
Have heard this footstep fall, altho' my wont 
Was more to scale the highest of the heights 
With some strange hope to see the nearer God. 

One naked peak — the sister of the sun 
Would climb from out the dark, and linger there 
To silver all the valleys with her shafts — 
There once, but long ago, five-fold thy term 
Of years, I lay ; the winds were dead for heat ; 
The noonday crag made the hand burn ; and sick 
For shadow — not one bush was near — I rose 
Following a torrent till its myriad falls 
Found silence in the hollows underneath. 

There in a secret olive-glade I saw 
Pallas Athene climbing from the bath 
In anger ; yet one glittering foot disturbed 
The lucid well ; one snowy knee was prest 
Against the margin flowers ; a dreadful light 
Came from her golden hair, her golden helm 
And all her golden armour on the grass, 
And from her virgin breast, and virgin eyes 
Remaining fixt on mine, till mine grew dark 
For ever, and I heard a voice that said 
*' Henceforth be blind, for thou hast seen too much, 
And speak the truth that no man may believe." 

Son, in the hidden world of sight, that lives 
Behind this darkness, I behold her still, 
Beyond all work of those who carved the stone. 
Beyond all dreams of Godlike womanhood, 
Ineffable beauty, out of whom, at a glance, 



254 TIRESIAS, 

And as it were, perforce, upon me flashed 
The power of prophesying — but to me 
No power — so chainM and coupled with the curse 
Of blindness and their unbelief, who heard 
And heard not, when I spake of famine, plague, 
Shrine-shattering earthquake, fire, flood, thunder- 
bolt, 
And angers of the Gods for evil done 
And expiation lackM — no power on Fate, 
Theirs, or mine own ! for when the crowd would 

roar 
For blood, for war, whose issue was their doom, 
To cast wise words among the multitude 
Was flinging fruit to lions ; nor, in hours 
Of civil outbreak, when I knew the twain 
Would each waste each, and bring on both the yoke 
Of stronger states, was mine the voice to curb 
The madness of our cities and their kings. 

Who ever turn'd upon his heel to hear 
My warning that the tyranny of one 
Was prelude to the tyranny of all? 
My counsel that the tyranny of all 
Led backward to the tyranny of one ? 

This power hath workM no good to aught that 
lives, 
And these blind hands were useless in their wars. 
O therefore that the unfulfilPd desire, 
The grief for ever born from griefs to be. 
The boundless yearning of the Prophet's heart — 
Could that stand forth, and like a statue, rear'd 
To some great citizen, win all praise from all 



TIRESIAS. 255 

Who past it, saying, ^* That was he ! " 

In vain ! 
Virtue must shape itself in deed, and those 
Whom weakness or necessity have cramp'd 
Within themselves, immerging, each, his urn 
In his own well, draw solace as he may. 

Menaceus, thou hast eyes, and I can hear 
Too plainly what full tides of onset sap 
Our seven high gates, and what a weight of war 
Rides on those ringing axles ! jingle of bits, 
Shouts, arrows, tramp of the hornfooted horse 
That grind the glebe to powder ! Stony showers 
Of that ear-stunning hail of Ares crash 
Along the sounding walls. Above, below. 
Shock after shock, the song-built towers and gates 
Reel, bruised and butted with the shuddering 
War-thunder of iron rams ; and from within 
The city comes a murmur void of joy, 
Lest she be taken captive — maidens, wives, 
And mothers with their babblers of the dawn. 
And oldest age in shadow from the night. 
Falling about their shrines before their Gods, 
And wailing " Save us.*" 

And they wail to thee ! 
These eyeless eyes, that cannot see thine own, 
See this, that only in thy virtue lies 
The saving of our Thebes ; for, yesternight, 
To me, the great God Ares, whose one bliss 
Is war, and human sacrifice — himself 
Blood-red from battle, spear and helmet tipt 
With stormy light as on a mast at sea, 



256 TJRESIAS. 

Stood out before a darkness, crying " Thebes, 
Thy Thebes shall fall and perish, for I loathe 
The seed of Cadmus — yet if one of these 

By his own hand — if one of these '^ 

My son, 
No sound is breathed so potent to coerce, 
And to conciliate, as their names who dare 
For that sweet mother land which gave them birth 
Nobly to do, nobly to die. Their names, 
Graven on memorial columns, are a song 
Heard in the future ; few, but more than wall 
And rampart, their examples reach a hand 
Far thro' all years, and everywhere they meet 
And kindle generous purpose, and the strength 
To mould it into action pure as theirs. 

Fairer thy fate than mine, if life's best end 
Be to end well ! and thou refusing this, 
Unvenerable will thy memory be 
While men shall move the lips : but if thou dare — 
Thou, one of these, the race of Cadmus — then 
No stone is fitted in yon marble girth 
Whose echo shall not tongue thy glorious doom, 
Nor in this pavement but shall ring thy name 
To every hoof that clangs it, and the springs 
Of Dirce laving yonder battle-plain, 
Heard from the roofs by night, will murmur thee 
To thine own Thebes, while Thebes thro' thee shall 

stand 
Firm-based with all her Gods. 

The Dragon's cave 
Half hid, they tell me, now in flowing vines — 



TIRESIAS. 257 

Where once he dwelt and whence he rolPd himself 
At dead of night — thou knowest, and that smooth 

rock 
Before it, altar-fashionM, where of late 
The woman-breasted Sphinx, with wings drawn 

back. 
Folded her lion paws, and look'd to Thebes. 
There blanch the bones of whom she slew, and these 
Mixt with her own, because the fierce beast found 
A wiser than herself, and dash'd herself 
Dead in her rage : but thou art wise enough, 
Tho^ young, to love thy wiser, blunt the curse 
Of Pallas, hear, and tho' I speak the truth 
Believe I speak it, let thine own hand strike 
Thy youthful pulses into rest and quench 
The red God's anger, fearing not to plunge 
Thy torch of life in darkness, rather — thou 
Rejoicing that the sun, the moon, the stars 
Send no such light upon the ways of men 
As one great deed. 

Thither, my son, and there 
Thou, that hast never known the embrace of love, 
Offer thy maiden life. 

This useless hand ! 
I felt one warm tear fall upon it. Gone ! 
He will achieve his greatness. 

But for me, 
I would that I were gathered to my rest, 
And mingled with the famous kings of old, 
On whom about their ocean-islands flash 
The faces of the Gods — the wise man's word, 



258 TIRESIAS, 

Here trampled by the populace underfoot, 

There crown'd with worship — and these eyes will 

find 
The men I knew, and watch the chariot whirl 
About the goal again, and hunters race 
The shadowy lion, and the warrior-kings, 
In height and prowess more than human, strive 
Again for glory, while the golden lyre 
Is ever sounding in heroic ears 
Heroic hymns, and every way the vales 
Wind, clouded with the grateful incense-fume 
Of those who mix all odour to the Gods 
On one far height in one far-shining fire. 



"One height and one far-shining fire" 

And while I fancied that my friend 
For this brief idyll would require 

A less diffuse and opulent end, 
And would defend his judgment well, 

If I should deem it over nice — 
The tolling of his fiineral bell 

Broke on my Pagan Paradise, 
And mixt the dream of classic times, 

And all the phantoms of the dream. 
With present grief, and made the rhymes, 

That miss'd his living welcome, seem 
Like would-be guests an hour too late, 

Who down the highway moving on 
With easy laughter find the gate 

Is bolted, and the master gone. 



THE WRECK. 259 

Gone into darkness, that full light 

Of friendship ! past, in sleep, away 
By night, into the deeper night ! 

The deeper night? A clearer day 
Than our poor twilight dawn on earth — 

If night, what barren toil to be ! 
What life, so maim'd by night, were worth 

Our living out? Not mine to me 
Remembering all the golden hours 

Now silent, and so many dead, 
And him the last ; and laying flowers. 

This wreath, above his honoured head, 
And praying that, when I from hence 

Shall fade with him into the unknown, 
My close of earth's experience 

May prove as peaceful as his own. 



THE WRECK. 



I. 

Hide me, Mother! my Fathers belonged to the 

church of old, 
I am driven by storm and sin and death to the 

ancient fold, 
I cling to the Catholic Cross once more, to the Faith 

that saves, 
My brain is full of the crash of wrecks, and the roar 

of waves. 
My life itself is a wreck, I have sullied a noble 

name, 



260 THE WRECK, 

I am flung from the rushing tide of the world as a 

waif of shame, 
I am roused by the wail of a child, and awake to a 

livid light, 
And a ghastlier face than ever has haunted a grave 

by night, 
I would hide from the storm without, I would flee 

from the storm within, 
I would make my life one prayer for a soul that died 

in his sin, 
I was the tempter. Mother, and mine was the deeper 

fall; 
I will sit at your feet, I will hide my face, I will tell 

you all. 

II. 

He that they gave me to. Mother, a heedless and 

innocent bride — 
I never have wrong'd his heart, I have only wounded 

his pride — 
Spain in his blood and the Jew — dark-visaged, 

stately and tall — 
A princelier-looking man never stept thro' a Prince's 

hall. 
And who, when his anger was kindled, would ven- 
ture to give him the nay? 
And a man men fear is a man to be loved by the 

women they say. 
And I could have loved him too, if the blossom can 

doat on the blight, 



THE WRECK. ' 261 

Or the young green leaf rejoice in the frost that 

sears it at night ; 
He would open the books that I prized, and toss 

them away with a yawn, 
Repelled by the magnet of Art to the which my 

nature was drawn. 
The word of the Poet by whom the deeps of the 

world are stirrM, 
The music that robes it in language beneath and be- 
yond the word ! 
My Shelley would fall from my hands when he cast 

a contemptuous glance 
From where he was poring over his Tables of Trade 

and Finance ; 
My hands, when I heard him coming would drop 

from the chords or the keys, 
But ever I faiPd to please him, however I strove to 

please — 
All day long far-off in the cloud of the city, and 

there 
Lost, head and heart, in the chances of dividend, 

consol, and share — 
And at home if I sought for a kindly caress, being 

woman and weak, 
His formal kiss fell chill as a flake of snow on the 

cheek : 
And so, when I bore him a girl, when I held it aloft 

in my joy. 
He looked at it coldly, and said to me " Pity it isn't 

a boy." 



262 THE WRECK, 

The one thing given me, to love and to live for, 

glanced at in scorn ! 
The child that I felt I could die for — as if she were 

basely born ! 
I had lived a wild-flower life, I was planted now in 

a tomb ; 
The daisy will shut to the shadow, I closed my 

heart to the gloom ; 
I threw myself all abroad — I would play my part 

with the young 
By the low foot-lights of the world — and I caught 

the wreath that was flung. 



III. 

Mother, I have not — however their tongues may 

have babbled of me — 
Sinn'd thro' an animal vileness, for all but a dwarf 

was he, 
And all but a hunchback too ; and I look'd at him, 

first, askance 
With pity — not he the knight for an amorous girPs 

romance ! 
Tho' wealthy enough to have bask'd in the light of 

a dowerless smile, 
Having lands at home and abroad in a rich West- 
Indian isle ; 
But I came on him once at a ball, the heart of a 

listening crowd — 
Why, what a brow was there! he was seated — 

speaking aloud 



( 



I 



THE WRECK, 263 

To women, the flower of the time, and men at the 

helm of state — 
Flowing with easy greatness and touching on all 

things great, 
Science, philosophy, song — till I felt myself ready 

to weep 
For I knew not what, when I heard that voice, — as 

mellow and deep 
As a psalm by a mighty master and peal'd from an 

organ, — roll 
Rising and falling — for, Mother, the voice was the 

voice of the soul ; 
And the sun of the soul made day in the dark of his 

wonderful eyes. 
Here was the hand that would help me, would heal 

me — the heart that was wise ! 
And he, poor man, when he learnt that I hated 

the ring I wore, 
He helpt me with death, and he heal'd me with 

sorrow for evermore. 



IV. 

For I broke the bond. That day my nurse had 

brought me the child. 
The small sweet face was flushed, but it coo'd to the 

Mother and smiled. 
"Anything ailing," I ask'd her, " with baby?" She 

shook her head. 
And the Motherless Mother kiss'd it, and turn'd in 

her haste and fled. 



264 THE WRECK, 

V. 

Low warm winds had gently breathed us away from 
the land — 

Ten long sweet summer days upon deck, sitting 
hand in hand — 

When he clothed a naked mind with the wisdom 
and wealth of his own, 

And I bowM myself down as a slave to his intel- 
lectual throne, 

When he coinM into English gold some treasure of 
classical song, 

When he flouted a statesman's error, or flamed at 
a public wrong. 

When he rose as it were on the wings of an eagle 
beyond me, and past 

Over the range and the change of the world from 
the first to the last. 

When he spoke of his tropical home in the canes by 
the purple tide, 

And the high star-crowns of his palms on the deep- 
wooded mountain-side. 

And cliffs all robed in lianas that dropt to the brink 
of his bay. 

And trees like the towers of a minster, the sons of 
a winterless day. 

" Paradise there ! " so he said, but I seemM in Para- 
dise then 

With the first great love I had felt for the first and 
greatest of men, 



THE WRECK, 265 

Ten long days of summer and sin — if it must be 

so — 
But days of a larger light than I f ver again shall 

know — 
Days that will glimmer, I fear, thro' life to my latest 

breath ; 
" No frost there," so he said, "as in truest Love no 

Death." 

VI. 

Mother, one morning a bird with a warble plain- 
tively sweet 

Perch'd on the shrouds, and then fell fluttering 
down at my feet ; 

I took it, he made it a cage, we fondled it, Stephen 
and I, 

But it died, and I thought of the child for a 
moment, I scarce know w^hy. 

VII. 

But if sin be sin, not inherited fate, as many will 

say. 
My sin to my desolate little one found me at sea on 

a day, 
When her orphan wail came borne in the shriek of 

a growing wind, 
And a voice rang out in the thunders of Ocean and 

Heaven " Thou hast sinnM." 
And down in the cabin were we, for the towering 

crest of the tides 



266 THE WRECK. 

Plunged on the vessel and swept in a cataract off 

from her sides, 
And ever the great storm grew with a howl and a 

hoot of the blast 
In the rigging, voices of hell — then came the crash 

of the mast. 
"The wages of sin is death," and then I began to 

weep, 
*' I am the Jonah, the crew should cast me into the 

deep. 
For ah God, what a heart was mine to forsake her 

even for you." 
" Never the heart among women," he said, " more 

tender and true." 
" The heart ! not a mother's heart, when I left my 

darling alone." 
" Comfort yourself, for the heart of the father will 

care for his own." 
"The heart of the father will spurn her," I cried, 

" for the sin of the wife. 
The cloud of the mother's shame will enfold her 

and darken her life." 
Then his pale face twitch'd; "O Stephen, I love 

you, I love you, and yet " — 
As I lean'd away from his arms — " would God, we 

had never met!" 
And he spoke not — only the storm; till after a 

little, I yearn'd 
For his voice again, and he call'd to me ** Kiss me ! " 

and there — as I turn'd — 



THE WRECK, 261 

"The heart, the heart!" I kiss'd him, I clung to 

the sinking form, 
And the storm went roaring above us, and he — 

was out of the storm. 

VIII. 

And then, then, Mother, the ship stagger'd under 

a thunderous shock. 
That shook us asunder, as if she had struck and 

crashM on a rock ; 
For a huge sea smote every soul from the decks of 

The Falcon but one ; 
All of them, all but the man that was lash'd to the 

helm had gone ; 
And I fell — and the storm and the days went by, 

but I knew no more — 
Lost myself — lay like the dead by the dead on the 

cabin floor. 
Dead to the death beside me, and lost to the loss. 

that was mine, 
With a dim dream, now and then, of a hand giving 

bread and wine, 
Till I woke from the trance, and the ship stood still, 

and the skies were blue. 
But the face I had known, O Mother, was not the 

face that I knew. 

IX. 

The strange misfeaturing mask that I saw so amazed 
me, that I 



268 THE WRECK. 

Stumbled on deck, half mad. I would fling myself 

over and die ! 
But one — he was waving a flag — the one man left 

on the wreck — 
" Woman " — he graspt at my arm — " stay there " 

— I crouch'd on the deck — 
" We are sinking, and yet there's hope : look yon- 
der,'^ he cried, "a sail'' 
In a tone so rough that I broke into passionate 

tears, and the wail 
Of a beaten babe, till I saw that a boat was nearing 

us — then 
All on a sudden I thought, I shall look on the 

child again. 



They lower'd me down the side, and there in the 

boat I lay 
With sad eyes fixt on the lost sea-home, as we 

glided away, 
And I sigh'd, as the low dark hull dipt under the 

smiling main, 
"Had I stay'd with him^ I had now — with him — I 

been out of my pain." 



XI. 

They took us aboard: the crew were gentle, the 

captain kind ; 
But / was the lonely slave of an often-wandering 

mind ; 



THE WRECK. 269 

For whenever a rougher gust might tumble a storm- 
ier wave, 

'* O Stephen," I moanM, *' I am coming to thee in 
thine Ocean-grave." 

And again, when a balmier breeze curPd over a 
peacefuller sea, 

I found myself moaning again * ' O child, I am com- 
ing to thee." 



XII. 

The broad white brow of the Isle — that bay with 

the coloured sand — 
Rich was the rose of sunset there, as we drew to the 

land ; 
All so quiet the ripple would hardly blanch into 

spray 
At the feet of the cliff; and I pray'd — ** my child" 

— for I still could pray — 
" May her life be as blissfully calm, be never gloom'd 

by the curse 
Of a sin, not hers !" 

Was it well with the child? 

I wrote to the nurse 
Who had borne my flower on her hireling heart; 

and an answer came 
Not from the nurse — nor yet to the wife — to her 

maiden name ! 
I shook as I open'd the letter — I knew that hand 

too well — 



270 THE ANCIENT SAGE. 

And from it a scrap, dipt out of the " deaths " in a 

paper, fell. 
" Ten long sweet summer days " of fever, and want 

of care ! 
And gone — that day of the storm — O Mother, she 

came to me there. 



THE ANCIENT SAGE. 

A THOUSAND summers ere the time of Christ 
From out his ancient city came a Seer 
Whom one that loved, and honoured him, and yet 
Was no disciple, richly garb'd, but worn 
From wasteful living, followed — in his hand 
A scroll of verse — till that old man before 
A cavern whence an affluent fountain pour'd 
From darkness into daylight, turn'd and spoke. 

This wealth of waters might but seem to draw 
From yon dark cave, but, son, the source is higher. 
Yon summit half-a-league in air — and higher. 
The cloud that hides it — higher still, the heavens 
Whereby the cloud was moulded, andwhereout 
The cloud descended. Force is from the heights. 
I am wearied of our city, son, and go 
To spend my one last year among the hills. 
What hast thou there? Some deathsong for the 

Ghouls 
To make their banquet relish ? let me read. 



THE ANCIENT SAGE, 271 

" How far thro' all the bloom and brake 

That nightingale is heard ! 
What power but the bird's could make 

This music in the bird ? 
How summer-bright are yonder skies, 

And earth as fair in hue ! 
And yet what sign of aught that lies 

Behind the green and blue ? 
But man to-day is fancy's fool 

As man hath ever been. 
The nameless Power, or Powers, that rule 

Were never heard or seen." 

If thou would'st hear the Nameless, and wilt dive 
Into the Temple-cave of thine own self, 
There, brooding by the central altar, thou 
May'st haply learn the Nameless hath a voice, 
By which thou wilt abide, if thou be wise, 
As if thou knewest, tho' thou canst not know ; 
For Knowledge is the swallow on the lake 
That sees and stirs the surface-shadow there 
But never yet hath dipt into the abysm, 
The Abysm of all Abysms, beneath, within 
The blue of sky and sea, the green of earth, 
And in the million-millionth of a grain 
Which cleft and cleft again for evermore, 
And ever vanishing, never vanishes, 
To me, my son, more mystic than myself, 
Or even than the Nameless is to me. 

And when thou sendest thy free soul thro' heaven, 



272 THE ANCIENT SAGE. 

Nor understandest bound nor boundlessness, 
Thou seest the Nameless of the hundred names. 
And if the Nameless should withdraw from all 
Thy frailty counts most real, all thy world 
Might vanish like thy shadow in the dark. 

" And since — from when this earth began — 
The Nameless never came 
Among us, never spake with man. 
And never named the Name ^' — 

Thou canst not prove the Nameless, O my son, 
Nor canst thou prove the world thou movest in, 
Thou canst not prove that thou art body alone. 
Nor canst thou prove that thou art spirit alone. 
Nor canst thou prove that thou art both in one : 
Thou canst not prove thou art immortal, no 
Nor yet that thou art mortal — nay my son, 
Thou canst not prove that I, who speak with thee, 
Am not thyself in converse with thyself. 
For nothing worthy proving can be proven, 
Nor yet disproven : wherefore thou be wise, 
Cleave ever to the sunnier side of doubt, 
And cling to Faith beyond the forms of Faith ! 
She reels not in the storm of warring words, 
She brightens at the clash of " Yes " and "No," 
She sees the Best that glimmers thro' the Worst, 
She feels the Sun is hid but for a night. 
She spies the summer thro' the winter bud. 
She tastes the fruit before the blossom falls, 



THE ANCIENT SAGE. 273 

She hears the lark within the songless egg. 

She finds the fountain where they waiPd "Mirage"! 

**What Power? aught akin to Mind, 

The mind in me and you ? 
Or power as of the Gods gone blind 

Who see not what they do?'' 

But some in yonder city hold, my son, 

That none but Gods could build this house of ours, 

So beautiful, vast, various, so beyond 

All work of man, yet, like all work of man, 

A beauty with defect till That which knows, 

And is not known, but felt thro' what we feel 
Within ourselves is highest, shall descend 
On this half-deed, and shape it at the last 
According to the Highest in the Highest. 

" What Power but the Years that make 

And break the va^e of clay, 
And stir the sleeping earth, and wake 

The bloom that fades away ? 
What rulers but the Days and Hours 

That cancel weal with woe. 
And wind the front of youth with flowers. 

And cap our age with snow ? " 

The days and hours are ever glancing by, 
And seem to flicker past thro' sun and shade, 
Or short, or long, as Pleasure leads, or Pain ; 



274 THE ANCIENT SAGE. 

But with the Nameless is nor Day nor Hour ; 

Tho' we, thin minds, who creep from thought to 

thought 
Break into "Thens" and "Whens" the Eternal 

Now: 
This double seeming of the single world ! — 
My words are like the babblings in a dream 
Of nightmare, when the babblings break the dream. 
But thou be wise in this dream-world of ours, 
Nor take thy dial for thy deity, 
But make the passing shadow serve thy will. 



" The years that made the stripling wise 

Undo their work again, 
And leave him, blind of heart and eyes, 

The last and least of men ; 
Who clings to earth, and once would dare 

Hell-heat or Arctic cold, 
And now one breath of cooler air 

Would loose him from his hold ; 
His winter chills him to the root, 

He withers marrow and mind ; 
The kernel of the shrivelPd fruit 

Is jutting thro' the rind ; 
The tiger spasms tear his chest, 

The palsy wags his head ; 
The wife, the sons, who love him best 

Would fain that he were dead ; 
The griefs by which he once was wrung 

Were never worth the while" — 



THE ANCIENT SAGE. 21 S 

Who knows? or whether this earth-narrow life 
Be yet but yolk, and forming in the shell? 

** The shaft of scorn that once had stung 
But wakes a dotard smile." 

The placid gleam of sunset after storm ! 

" The statesman's brain that sway'd the past 

Is feebler than his knees ; 
The passive sailor wrecks at last 

In ever-silent seas ; 
The warrior hath forgot his arms, 

The Learned all his lore ; 
The changing market frets or charms 

The merchant's hope no more ; 
The prophet's beacon burn'd in vain, 

And now is lost in cloud ; 
The plowman passes, bent with pain, 

To mix with what he plow'd ; 
The poet whom his Age would quote 

As heir of endless fame — 
He knows not ev'n the book he wrote, 

Not even his own name. 
For man has overlived his day. 

And, darkening in the light, 
Scarce feels the senses break away 

To mix with ancient Night." 

The shell must break before the bird can fly. 

** The years that when my Youth began 
Had set the lily and rose 



276 THE ANCIENT SAGE. 

By all my ways where'er they ran, 

Have ended mortal foes ; 
My rose of love for ever gone, 

My lily of truth and trust — 
They made her lily and rose in one. 

And changed her into dust. 
O rosetree planted in my grief, 

And growing, on her tomb, 
Her dust is greening in your leaf, 

Her blood is in your bloom. 
O slender lily waving there, 

And laughing back the light. 
In vain you tell me ' Earth is fair ' 

When all is dark as night." 

My son, the world is dark with griefs and graves, 
So dark that men cry out against the Heavens. 
Who knows but that the darkness is in man? 
The doors of Night may be the gates of Light ; 
For wert thou born or blind or deaf, and then 
Suddenly heaPd, how would'st thou glory in all 
The splendours and the voices of the world ! 
And we, the poor earth's dying race, and yet 
No phantoms, watching from a phantom shore 
Await the last and largest sense to make 
The phantom walls of this illusion fade, 
And show us that the world is wholly fair. 

** But vain the tears for darken'd years 

As laughter over wine. 
And vain the laughter as the tears, 



THE ANCIENT SAGE. 277 

O brother, mine or thine, 
For all that laugh, and all that weep, 

And all that breathe are one 
Slight ripple on the boundless deep 

That moves, and all is gone." 

But that one ripple on the boundless deep 
Feels that the deep is boundless, and itself 
For ever changing form, but evermore 
One with the boundless motion of the deep. 

** Yet wine and laughter friends ! and set 

The lamps alight, and call 
For golden music, and forget 

The darkness of the pall." 

If utter darkness closed the day, my son 

But earth's dark forehead flings athwart the heavens 
Her shadow crown'd with stars — and yonder — out 
To northward — some that never set, but pass 
From sight and night to lose themselves in day. 
I hate the black negation of the bier, 
And wish the dead, as happier than ourselves 
And higher, having climb'd one step beyond 
Our village miseries, might be borne in white 
To burial or to burning, hymn'd from hence 
With songs in praise of death, and crown'd with 
flowers ! 

" O worms and maggots of to-day 
Without their hope of wings ! " 



278 THE ANCIENT SAGE. 

But louder than thy rhyme the silent Word 
Of that world-prophet in the heart of man. 

" Tho' some have gleams or so they say 
Of more than mortal things." 

To-day ? but what of yesterday ? for oft 

On me, when boy, there came what then I calPd, 

Who knew no books and no philosophies, 

In my boy-phrase " The Passion of the Past." 

The first gray streak of earliest summer-dawn, 

The last long stripe of waning crimson gloom, 

As if the late and early were but one — 

A height, a broken grange, a grove, a flower 

Had murmurs " Lost and gone and lost and gone ! " 

A breath, a whisper — some divine farewell — 

Desolate sweetness — far and far away — 

What had he loved, what had he lost, the boy? 

I know not and I speak of what has been. 

And more, my son ! for more than once when I 
Sat all alone, revolving in myself 
The word that is the symbol of myself, 
The mortal limit of the Self was loosed, 
And past into the Nameless, as a cloud 
Melts into Heaven. I touch'd my limbs, the limbs 
Were strange not mine — and yet no shade of doubt. 
But utter clearness, and thro' loss of Self 
The gain of such large life as match'd with ours 
Were Sun to spark — unshadowable in words, 
Themselves but shadows of a shadow-world. 

" And idle gleams will come and go, 
But still the clouds remain ; " 



THE ANCIENT SAGE 279 

The clouds themselves are children of the Sun. 

" And Night and Shadow rule below 
When only Day should reign." 

And Day and Night are children of the Sun, 
And idle gleams to thee are light to me. 
Some say, the Light was father of the Night, 
And some, the Night was father of the Light. 
No night no day! — I touch thy world again — 
No ill no good ! such counter- terms, my son. 
Are border-races, holding, each its own 
By endless war : but night enough is there 
In yon dark city : get thee back : and since 
The key to that weird casket, which for thee 
But holds a skull, is neither thine nor mine, 
But in the hand of what is more than man, 
Or in man's hand when man is more than man 
Let be thy wail and help thy fellow men, 
And make thy gold thy vassal not thy king, 
And fling free alms into the beggar's bowl. 
And send the day into the darkened heart ; 
Nor list for guerdon in the voice of men, 
A dying echo from a falling wall ; 
Nor care — for Hunger hath the Evil eye — 
To vex the noon with fiery gems, or fold 
Thy presence in the silk of sumptuous looms ; 
Nor roll thy viands on a luscious tongue. 
Nor drown thyself with flies in honied wine ; 
Nor thou be rageful, like a handled bee, 
And lose thy life by usage of thy sting ; 



280 THE FLIGHT. 

Nor harm an adder thro' the lust for harm, 
Nor make a snaiPs horn shrink for wantonness ; 
And more — think well! Do- well will follow 

thought, 
And in the fatal sequence ofthis world 
An evil thought may soil thy children's blood ; 
But curb the beast would cast thee in the mire, 
And leave the hot swamp of voluptuousness 
A cloud between the Nameless and thyself, 
And lay thine uphill shoulder to the wheel, 
And climb the Mount of Blessing, whence, if thou 
Look higher, then — perchance — thou mayest — 

beyond 
A hundred ever-rising mountain lines, 
And past the range of Night and Shadow — see 
The high-heaven dawn of more than mortal day 
Strike on the Mount of Vision ! 

So, farewell. 



THE FLIGHT. 

I. 

Are you sleeping? have you forgotten? do not 

sleep, my sister dear ! 
How can you sleep ? the morning brings the day I 

hate and fear ; 
The cock has crow'd already once, he crows before 

his time ; 
Awake ! the creeping glimmer steals, the hills are 

white with rime. 



THE FLIGHT, 281 



II. 



Ah, clasp me in your arms, sister, ah, fold me to 

your breast ! 
Ah, let me weep my fill once more, and cry myself 

to rest ! 
To rest? to rest and wake no more were better rest 

for me, 
Than to waken every morning to that face I loathe 

to see : 

III. 

I envied your sweet slumber, all night so calm you 

lay, 
The night was calm, the morn is calm, and like 

another day ; 
But I could wish yon moaning sea would rise and 

burst the shore, 
And such a whirlwind blow these woods, as never 

blew before. 

IV. 

For, one by one, the stars went down across the 

gleaming pane, 
And project after project rose, and all of them were 

vain; 
The black thorn-blossom fades and falls and leaves 

the bitter sloe, 
The hope I catch at vanishes and youth is turn'd 

to woe. 



282 THE FLIGHT, 



V. 

Come, speak a little comfort! all night I pray'd 

with tears, 
And yet no comfort came to me, and now the morn 

appears, 
When he will tear me from your side, who bought 

me for his slave : 
This father pays his debt with me, and weds me to 

my grave. 

VI. 

What father, this or mine, was he, who, on that 

summer day 
When I had falPn from off the crag we clamber'd up 

in play. 
Found, fear'd me dead, and groan'd, and took and 

kiss'd me, and again 
He kiss'd me ; and I loved him then ; he was my 

father then. 

VII. 

No father now, the tyrant vassal of a tyrant vice ! 
The Godless Jephtha vows his child ... to one 

cast of the dice. 
These ancient woods, this Hall at last will go — 

perhaps have gone, 
Except his own meek daughter yield her life, heart, 

soul to one — 



THE FLIGHT. 283 

VIII. 

To one who knows I scorn him. O the formal 

mocking bow, 
The cruel smile, the courtly phrase that masks his 

malice now — 
But often in the sidelong eyes a gleam of all things 

ill — 
It is not Love but Hate that weds a bride against 

her will ; 

IX. 

Hate, that would pluck from this true breast the 

locket that I wear. 
The precious crystal into which I braided Edwin's 

hair! 
The love that keeps this heart alive beats on it 

night and day — 
One golden curl, his golden gift, before he past 

away. 

X. 

He left us weeping in the woods ; his boat was on 

the sand ; 
How slowly down the rocks he went, how loth to 

quit the land ! 
And all my life was darkened, as I saw the white sail 

run, 
Vnd darken, up that lane of light into the setting 

sun. 



284 THE FLIGHT, 

XI. 

How often have we watch'd the sun fade from us 

thro' the West, 
And follow Edwin to those isles, those islands of 

the Blest ! 
Is ht not there? would I were there, the friend, the 

bride, the wife. 
With him, where summer never dies, with Love, the 

Sun of life ! 



XII. 

O would I were in Edwin's arms — once more — to 

feel his breath 
Upon my cheek — on Edwin's ship, with Edwin, 

ev'n in death, 
Tho' all about the shuddering wreck the death-white 

sea should rave, 
Or if lip were laid to lip on the pillows of the wave. 



XIII. 

Shall I take him ? I kneel with him f I swear and 

swear forsworn 
To love him most, whom most I loathe, to honour 

whom I scorn? 
The Fiend would yell, the grave would yawn, my 

mother's ghost would rise — 
To lie, to lie — in God's own house — the blackest 

of all lies ! 



THE FLIGHT. 285 

XIV. 

Why — rather than that hand in mine, tho' e very- 
pulse would freeze, 

I'd sooner fold an icy corpse dead of some foul dis- 
ease : 

Wed him? I will not wed him, let them spurn me 
from the doors. 

And I will wander till I die about the barren moors. 



XV. 

The dear, mad bride who stabb'd her bridegroom 

on her bridal night — 
If mad, then I am mad, but sane, if she were in the 

right. 
My father's madness makes me mad — but words 

are only words ! 
I am not mad, not yet, not quite — There ! listen 

how the birds 



XVI. 

Begin to warble yonder in the budding orchard 

trees ! 
The lark has past from earth to Heaven upon the 

morning breeze ! 
How gladly, were I one of those, how early would 

I wake ! 
And yet the sorrow that I bear is sorrow for his 

sake. 



286 THE FLIGHT, 

XVII. 

They love their mates, to whom they sing ; or else 

their songs, that meet 
The morning with such music, would never be so 

sweet ! 
And tho' these fathers will not hear, the blessed 

Heavens are just, 
And Love is fire, and burns the feet would trample 

it to dust. 

XVIII. 

A door was openM in the house — who ? who ? my 

father sleeps ! 
A stealthy foot upon the stair ! he — some one — 

this way creeps ! 
If he.^* yes, he . . . lurks, listens, fears his victim 

may have fled — 
He! where is some sharp-pointed thing? he comes, 

and finds me dead. 



XIX. 

Not he, not yet ! and time to act — but how my 

temples burn ! 
And idle fancies flutter me, I know not where to 

turn; 
Speak to me, sister ; counsel me ; this marriage 

must not be. 
You only know the love that makes the world a 

world to me ! 



THE FLIGHT. 287 

XX. 

Our gentle mother, had she lived — but we were left 

alone : 
That other left us to ourselves ; he cared not for his 

own ; 
So all the summer long we roam'd in these wild 

woods of ours, 
My Edwin loved to call us then "His two wild 

woodland flowers." 



XXI. 

Wild flowers blowing side by side in God's free 

light and air, 
Wild flowers of the secret woods, when Edwin 

found us there. 
Wild woods in which we roved with him, and heard 

his passionate vow. 
Wild woods in which we rove no more, if we be 

parted now ! 

XXII. 

You will not leave me thus in grief to wander forth 

forlorn ; 
We never changed a bitter word, not one since we 

were born ; 
Our dying mother join'd our hands ; she knew this 

father well ; 
She bad us love, like souls in Heaven, and now I 

fly from Hell, 



288 THE FLIGHT. 



XXIII. 



And you with me ; and we shall light upon some 

lonely shore, 
Some lodge within the waste sea-dunes, and hear 

the waters roar. 
And see the ships from out the West go dipping 

thro^ the foam, 
And sunshine on that sail at last which brings our 

Edwin home. 



XXTV. 

But look, the morning grows apace, and lights the 

old church-tower, 
And lights the clock ! the hand points five — O me 

— it strikes the hour — 
I bide no more, I meet my fate, whatever ills betide ! 
Arise, my own true sister, come forth ! the world 

is wide. 



XXV. 

And yet my heart is ill at ease, my eyes are dim 

with dew, 
I seem to see a new-dug grave up yonder by the 

yew! 
If we should never more return, but wander hand in 

hand 
With breaking hearts, without a friend, and ia a 

distant land. 



TOMORROW, 289 

XXVI. 

O sweet, they tell me that the world is hard, and 

harsh of mind. 
But can it be so hard, so harsh, as those that should 

be kind ? 
That matters not : let come what will ; at last the 

end is sure, 
And every heart that loves with truth is equal to 

endure. 



TOMORROW. 



I. 

Her, that yer Honour was spakin' to? Whin, yer 

Honour? last year — 
Standin' here be the bridge, when last yer Honour 

was here? 
An' yer Honour ye gev her the top of the mornin', 

" Tomorra " says she. 
What did they call her, yer Honour? They calPd 

her Molly Magee. 
An' yer Honour's the thrue ould blood that always 

manes to be kind. 
But there's rason in all things, yer Honour, for 

Molly was out of her mind. 

II. 

Shure, an' meself remimbers wan night comin' down 
be the sthrame, 



290 TOMORROW. 

An' it seems to me now like a bit of yisther-day in 

a dhrame — 
Here where yer Honour seen her — there was but a 

slip of a moon, 
But I hard thim — Molly Magee wid her batchelor, 

Danny O'Roon — 
"You've been takin' a dhrop o' the crathur" an' 

Danny says " Troth, an' I been 
Dhrinkin' yer health wid Shamus O'Shea at Katty's 

shebeen ; ^ 
But I must be lavin' ye soon." "Ochone are ye 

goin' away ? " 
" Goin' to cut the Sassenach whate " he says " over 

the say " — 
"An' whin will ye meet me agin?" an' I hard him 

" Molly asthore, 
I'll meet you agin tomorra," says he, " be the chapel- 
door." 
" An' whin are ye goin' to lave me? " " O' Monday 

mornin' " says he ; 
"An' shure thin ye'll meet me tomorra?" "To- 
morra, tomorra, Machree ! " 
rhin Molly's ould mother, yer Honour, that had no 

likin' for Dan, 
Call'd from her cabin an' tould her to come away 

from the man. 
An' Molly Magee kem flyin' acrass me, as light as 

a lark, 
An' Dan stood there for a minute, an' thin wint into 

the dark. 

* Grog-shop. 



TOMORROW, 291 

But wirrah ! the storm that night — the tundher, an' 

rain that fell, 
An' the sthrames runnin' down at the back o' the 

glin 'ud 'a- dhrownded Hell. 

III. 

But airth was at pace nixt mornin', an' Hiven in its 

glory smiled, 
As the Holy Mother o' Glory that smiles at her 

sleepin' child — 
Ethen — she stept an the chapel-green, an' she turn'd 

herself roun' 
Wid a diamond dhrop in her eye, for Danny was not 

to be foun', 
An' many's the time that I watch'd her at mass lettin' 

down the tear, 
For the Divil a Danny was there, yer Honour, for 

forty year. 

IV. 

Och, Molly Magee, wid the red o' the rose an' the 

white o' the May, 
An' yer hair as black as the night, an' yer eyes as 

bright as the day ! 
Achora, yer laste little whishper was sweet as the 

lilt of a bird ! 
Acushla, ye set me heart batin' to music wid ivery 

word ! 
An' sorra the Queen wid her sceptre in sich an illi- 

gant han', 



292 TOMORROW 

An' the fall of yer foot in the dance was as light as 

snow an the Ian', 
An' the sun kem out of a cloud whiniver ye walkt in 

the shtreet, 
An' Shamus O'Shea was yer shadda, an' laid himself 

undher yer feet, 
An' I loved ye meself wid a heart and a half, me 

darlin', and he 
'Ud 'a shot his own sowl dead for a kiss of ye, 

Molly Magee. 

V. 

But shure we wor betther frinds whin I crack'd his 

skull for her sake. 
An' he ped me back wid the best he could give at 

ould Donovan's wake — 
For the boys wor about her agin whin Dan didn't 

come to the fore. 
An' Shamus along wid the rest, but she put thim all 

to the door. 
An', afther, I thried her meself av the bird 'ud come 

to me call, 
But Molly, begorrah, 'ud listhen to naither at all, 

at all. 

VI. 

An' her nabours an' frinds 'ud consowl an' condowl 

wid her, airly and late, 
** Your Danny," they says, "niver crasst over say to 

the Sassenach whate ; 



TOMORROW, 293 

He's gone to the States, aroon, an' he's married 

another wife, 
An' ye'll niver set eyes an the face of the thraithur 

agin in life ! 
An' to dhrame of a married man, death alive, is a 

mortial sin." 
But Molly says " I'd his hand-promise, an' shure he'll 

meet me agin." 

VII. 

An' afther her paarints had inter'd glory, an' both 

in wan day, 
She began to spake to herself, the crathur, an' 

whishper, an' say 
"Tomorra, Tomorra!" an' Father Molowny he tuk 

her in han', 
** Molly, you're manin'," he says, "me dear, av I 

undherstan'. 
That ye'll meet your paarints agin an' yer Danny 

O'Roon afore God 
Wid his blessed Marthyrs an' Saints ; " an' she gev 

him a frindly nod, 
** Tomorra, Tomorra," she says, an' she didn't intind 

to desave. 
But her wits wor dead, an' her hair was as white as 

the snow an a grave. 

VIII. 

Arrah now, here last month they wor diggin' the 
bog, an' they foun' 



294 TOMORROW, 

Dhrownded in black bog-wather a corp lyin' undher 
groun\ 

IX. 

Yer Honour's own agint, he says to me wanst, at 

Katty's shebeen, 
** The Divil take all the black Ian', for a blessin' 'ud 

come wid the green ! " 
An' where 'ud the poor man, thin, cut his bit o' 

turf for the fire ? 
But och ! bad scran to the bogs whin they swallies 

the man intire ! 
An' sorra the bog that's in Hiven wid all the light 

an' the glow, 
An' there's hate enough, shure, widout thim in the 

Divil's kitchen below. 



Thim ould blind nagers in Agypt, I hard his River- 

ence say. 
Could keep their haithen kings in the flesh for the 

Jidgemint day, 
An', faix, be the piper o' Moses, they kep the cat 

an' the dog. 
But it 'ud 'a been aisier work av they lived be an 

Irish bog. 

XI. 

How-an-iver they laid this body they foun' an the 
grass 



TOMORROW. 295 

Be the chapel-door, an' the people 'ud see it that 

wint into mass — 
But a frish gineration had riz, an' most of the ould 

was few, 
An' I didn't know him meself, an' none of the 

parish knew. 

XII. 

But Molly kem limpin' up wid her stick, she was 

lamed iv a knee. 
Thin a slip of a gossoon call'd, " Div ye know him, 

Molly Magee ? " 
An' she stood up strait as the Queen of the world — 

she lifted her head — 
" He said he would meet me tomorra ! " an' dhropt 

down dead an the dead. 



XIII. 

Och, Molly, we thought, machree, ye would start 

back agin into life, 
Whin we laid yez, aich be aich, at yer wake like 

husban' an' wife. 
Sorra the dhry eye thin but was wet for the frinds 

that was gone ! 
Sorra the silent throat but we hard it cryin' 

" Ochone ! " 
An' Shamus O'Shea that has now ten childer, 

hansome an' tall. 
Him an' his childer wor keenin' as if he had lost 

thim all. 



296 TOMORROW, 

xrv. 

Thin his Riverence buried thim both in wan grave 

be the dead boor-tree, ^ 
The young man Danny O'Roon wid his ould woman, 

Molly Magee. 

XV. 

May all the flowers o' Jeroosilim blossom an' spring 

from the grass, 
Imbrashin' an' kissin' aich other — as ye did — over 

yer Crass ! 
An' the lark fly out o' the flowers wid his song to 

the Sun an' the Moon, 
An' tell thim in Hiven about Molly Magee an' her 

Danny O'Roon, 
Till Holy St. Pether gets up wid his kays an' opens 

the gate ! 
An' shure, be the Crass, that's betther nor cuttin' 

the Sassenach whate 
To be there wid the Blessed Mother, an' Saints an' 

Mar thy rs galore, 
An' singin' yer '' Aves " an' " Fathers " for iver an' 

ivermore. 

XVI. 

An' now that I tould yer Honour whativer I hard 

an' seen, 
Yer Honour 'ill give me a thrifle to dhrink yer 

health in potheen. 

1 Elder-tree. 



THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS. 191 



THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS. 

I. 

Milk for my sweet-arts, Bess ! fur it mun be the 

time about now 
When Molly cooms in fro' the far-end close wi' her 

paails fro' the cow. 
Eh ! tha be new to the plaace — thou'rt gaapin' — 

doesn't tha see 
I calls 'em arter the fellers es once was sweet upo' 

me? 

II. 

Naay to be sewer it be past 'er time. What maakes 

'er sa laate ? 
Goa to the laane at the back, an' loook thruf Mad* 

dison's gaate ! 

III. 

Sweet-arts ! Molly belike may 'a lighted to-night 

upo' one. 
Sweet-arts 1 thanks to the Lord that I niver not 

listen'd to noan ! 
So I sits i' my oan armchair wi' my oan kettle theere 

o' the hob, 
An' Tommy the fust, an' Tommy the second, an' 

Steevie an' Rob. 



298 THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS, 

rv. 

Rob, coom oop 'ere o' my knee. Thou sees that 

r spite o' the men 
I 'a kep' thruf thick an' thin my two 'oonderd a-year 

to mysen ; 
Yis ! thaw tha calPd me es pretty es ony lass i' the 

Shere, 
An' thou be es pretty a Tabby, but Robby I seed 

thruf ya theere. 

V. 

Feyther 'ud saay I wur ugly as sin, an' I beant not 

vaain, 
But I niver wur downright hugly, thaw soom 'ud 'a 

thowt ma plaain, 
An' I wasn't sa plaain i' pink ribbons, ye said I wur 

pretty i' pinks. 
An' I liked to 'ear it I did, but I beant sich a fool 

as ye thinks ; 
Ye was stroakin ma down wi' the 'air, i* I be a 

stroakin o' you. 
But whiniver I loook'd i' the glass I wur sewer that 

it couldn't be true ; 
Niver wur pretty, not I, but ye knaw'd it wur pleas- 
ant to 'ear. 
Thaw it warn't not me es wur pretty, but my two 

'oonderd a-year. 

VI. 

D'ya mind the murnin' when we was a-walkin' 
togither, an' stood 



THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS, 299 

By the claay'd-oop pond, that the foalk be sa scared 

at, r Gigglesby wood, 
Wheer the poor wench drowndid hersen, black Sal, 

es 'ed been disgraaced? 
An' I feePd thy arm es I stood wur a-creeapin about 

my waaist ; 
An' me es wur alius afear'd of a man's gittin' ower 

fond, 
I sidled awaay an' awaay till I plumpt foot fust i' 

the pond ; 
And, Robby, I niver 'a liked tha sa well, as I did 

that daay. 
Fur tha joompt in thysen, an' tha hoickt my feet 

wi' a flop fro' the claay. 
Ay, stick oop thy back, an' set oop thy taail, tha 

may gie ma a kiss. 
Fur I walk'd wi' tha all the way hoam an' wur niver 

sa nigh saayin' Yis. 
But wa boath was i' sich a clat we was shaamed to 

cross Gigglesby Greean, 
Fur a cat may loook at a king thou knaws but the 

cat mun be clean. 
Sa we boath on us kep out o' sight o' the winders 

o' Gigglesby Hinn — 
Naay, but the claws o' tha ! quiet ! they pricks clean 

thruf to the skin — 
An' wa boath slinkt 'oam by the brokken shed i' the 

laane at the back, 
Wheer the poodle runn'd at tha' once, an' thou 

runn'd oop o' the thack ; 



300 THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS. 

Au' tha squeedg'd my 'and i' the shed, fur theere 

we was forced to 'ide, 
Fur I seed that Steevie wur coomin', and one o' the 

Tommies beside. 



VII. 

Theere now, what arfa mewin at, Steevie? for owt 

I can tell — 
Robby wur fust to be sewer, or I mowt 'a liked tha 

as well. 

VIII. 

But, Robby, I thowt o' tha all the while I wur 

chaangin' my gown, 
*An' I thowt shall I chaange my staate? but, O 

Lord, upo' coomin' down — 
My bran-new carpet es fresh es a midder o' flowers 

i' Maay — 
Why 'edn't tha wiped thy shoes ? it wur clatted all 

ower wi' claay. 
An' I could 'a cried ammost, fur I seed that it 

couldn't be, 
An' Robby I gied tha a raatin that sattled thy 

coortin o' me. 
An' Molly an' me was agreed, as we was a-cleanin' 

the floor. 
That a man be a durty thing an' a trouble an' plague 

wi' indoor. 
But I rued it arter a bit, fur I stuck to tha more na 

the rest, 



THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS, 301 

But I couldn't 'a lived wi' a man an' I knaws it be 
all fur the best. 

IX. 

Naay — let ma stroak tha down till I maakes tha as 

smooth as silk, 
But if I 'ed married tha, Robby, thou'd not 'a been 

worth thy milk, 
Thou'd niver 'a cotch'd ony mice but 'a left me the 

work to do, 
And 'a taaen to the bottle beside, so es all that I 

'ears be true ; 
But I loovs tha to maake thysen 'appy, an' soa purr 

awaay, my dear. 
Thou 'ed wellnigh purr'd ma awaay fro' my oan two 

'oonderd a-year. 



Swearin agean, you Toms, as ye used to do twelve 

years sin' ! 
Ye niver 'eard Steevie swear 'cep' it wur at a dog 



An' boath o' ye mun be fools to be hallus a-shawin' 

your claws, 
Fur I niver cared nothink for neither — an' one o' 

ye dead ye knaws ! 
Coom giv hoaver then, weant ye? I warrant ye 

soom fine daay — 
Theere, lig down — I shall hev to gie one or tother 

awaay. 



302 THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS. 

Can't ye taake pattern by Steevie ? ye shant hev a 

drop fro' the paail. 
Steevie be right good manners bang thruf to the tip 

o' the taail. 

XI. 

Robby, git down wi'tha, wilt tha? let Steevie coom 

oop o' my knee. 
Steevie, my lad, thou 'ed very nigh been the Steevie 

fur me ! 
Robby wur fust to be sewer, 'e wur burn an' bred 

i' the 'ouse, 
But thou be es 'ansom a tabby as iver patted a 

mouse. 

XII. 

An' I beant not vaain, but I knaws I 'ed led tha a 

quieter life 
Nor her wi' the hepitaph yonder! "A faaithful an' 

loovin' wife ! " 
An' 'cos o' thy farm by the beck, an' thy windmill 

oop o' the croft, 
Tha thowt tha would marry ma, did tha ? but that 

wur a bit ower soft, 
Thaw thou was es soaber as daay, wi' a niced red 

faace, an' es clean 
Es a shillin' fresh fro' the mint wi' a bran-new 'ead 

o' the Queean, 
An' thy farmin' es clean es thy sen, fur, Steevie, tha 

kep' it sa neat 



THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS. 303 

That I niver not spied sa much as a poppy along wi' 

the wheat, 
An' the wool of a thistle a-flyin' an' seeadin' tha 

haated to see ; 
'Twur as bad as a battle-twig ^ 'ere i' my oan blue 

chaumber to me. 
Ay, roob thy whiskers agean ma, fur I could 'a taan 

to tha well, 
But fur thy bairns, poor Steevie, a bouncin' boy an' 

a gell. 

XIII. 

An' thou was es fond o' thy bairns es I be mysen 

o' my cats, 
But I niver not wish'd fur childer, I hevn't naw 

likin' fur brats ; 
Pretty anew when ya dresses 'em oop, an' they goas 

fur a walk, 
Or sits wi' their 'ands afoor 'em, an' doesn't not 

'inder the talk ! 
But their bottles o' pap, an' their mucky bibs, an' 

the clats an' the clouts, 
An' their mashin' their toys to pieaces an' maakin' 

ma deaf wi' their shouts, 
An' hallus a-joompin' about ma as if they was set 

upo' springs. 
An' a haxin' ma hawkard questions, an' saayin' 

ondecent things. 
An' a-callin' ma 'Miugly " mayhap to my faace, or a 

tearin' my gown — 

i Earwig. 






304 THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS. 

Dear! dear! dear! I mun part them Tommies 
Steevie git down. 



XIV. 

Ye be wuss nor the men-tommies, you. I tell'd ya, 

na moor o' that ! 
Tom, lig theere o' the cushion, an' tother Tom 'ere 

o' the mat. 

XV. 

Theere ! I ha' master'd them ! Hed I married the 

Tommies — O Lord, 
To loove an' obaay the Tommies ! I couldn't 'a 

stuck by my word. 
To be horder'd about, an' waaked, when Molly 'd put 

out the light, 
By a man coomin' in wi' a hiccup at ony hour o' the 

night ! 
An' the taable staain'd wi' 'is aale, an' the mud o' 

'is boots o' the stairs. 
An' the stink o' 'is pipe i' the 'ouse, an' the mark o' 

'is 'ead o' the chairs ! 
An' noan o' my four sweet-arts 'ud 'a let me 'a hed 

my oan waay, 
Sa I likes 'em best wi' taails when they 'evn't a word 

to saay. 

XVI. 

An' I sits i' my oan little parlour, an' sarved by my 
oan little lass, 



THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS. 305 

Wi' my oan little garden outside, an' my oan bed o' 
sparrow-grass, 

An' my oan door-poorch wi' the woodbine an' jess- 
mine a-dressin' it greean, 

An' my oan fine Jackman i' purple a roabin' the 
'ouse like a Queean. 

XVII. 

An' the little gells bobs to ma hoffens es I be abroad 
i' the laanes, 

When I goas to coomfut the poor es be down wi' 
their haaches an' their paains : 

An' a haaf-pot o' jam, or a mossel o' meat when it 
beant too dear, 

They maakes ma a graater Laady nor 'er i' the man- 
sion theer, 

Hes 'es hallus to hax of a man how much to spare 
or to spend ; 

An' a spinster I be an' I will be, if soa please God, 
to the hend. 

XVIII. 

Mew ! mew ! — Bess wi' the milk ! what ha maade 

our Molly sa laate ? 
It should 'a been 'ere by seven, an' theere — it be 

strikin' height — 
"Cushie wur craazed fur 'er cauf" well — I 'eard 'er 

a maakin' 'er moan. 
An' I thowt to mysen '' thank God that I hevn't naw 

cauf o' my oan." 
Theere ! 



306 BALIN AND BALAN. 

Set it down ! 

Now Robby ! 
You Tommies shall waait to-night 
Till Robby an' Steevie 'es 'ed their lap — an' it 
sarves ye right. 



BALIN AND BALAN.i 

Pellam the King, who held and lost with Lot 
In that first war, and had his realm restored 
But render'd tributary, fail'd of late 
To send his tribute ; wherefore Arthur calPd 
His treasurer, one of many years, and spake, 
*' Go thou with him and him and bring it to us, 
Lest we should set one truer on his throne. 
Man's word is God in man," 

His Baron said 
" We go but harken : there be two strange knights 
Who sit near Camelot at a fountain-side, 
A mile beneath the forest, challenging 
And overthrowing every knight who comes. 
Wilt thou I undertake them as we pass. 
And send them to thee ? " 

Arthur laugh'd upon him. 
" Old friend, too old to be so young, depart. 
Delay not thou for ought, but let them sit. 
Until they find a lustier than themselves." 

1 An introduction to *' Merlin and Vivien." 



BALIN AND BALAN. 307 

So these departed. Early, one fair dawn, 
The Hght-wing'd spirit of his youth returned 
On Arthur's heart ; he armed Jiimself and went, • 
So coming to the fountain-side beheld 
Balin and Balan sitting statuelike. 
Brethren, to right and left the spring, that down, 
From underneath a plume of lady-fern. 
Sang, and the sand danced at the bottom of it. 
And on the right of Balin Balin's horse 
Was fast beside an alder, on the left 
Of Balan Balan's near a poplartree. 
"Fair Sirs," said Arthur, " wherefore sit ye here?" 
Balin and Balan answer'd " For the sake 
Of glory ; we be mightier men than all 
In Arthur's court ; that also have we proved ; 
For whatsoever knight against us came 
Or I or he have easily overthrown." 
*'I too," said Arthur, "am of Arthur's hall. 
But rather proven in his Paynim wars 
Than famous jousts ; but see, or proven or not. 
Whether me likewise ye can overthrow." 
And Arthur lightly smote the brethren down. 
And lightly so returned, and no man knew. 

Then Balin rose, and Balan, and beside 
The carolling water set themselves again, 
And spake no word until the shadow turn'd ; 
When from the fringe of coppice round them burst 
A spangled pursuivant, and crying " Sirs, 
Rise, follow ! ye be sent for by the King," 
They follow'd ; whom when Arthur seeing ask'd 
" Tell me your names ; why sat ye by the well 1 " 



308 BALIN AND BALAN, 

Balin the stillness of a minute broke 
Saying " An unmelodious name to thee, 
Balin, 'the Savage,' — that addition thine — 
My brother and my better, this man here, 
Balan. I smote upon the naked skull 
A thrall of thine in open hall, my hand 
Was gauntleted, half slew him ; for I heard 
He had spoken evil of me ; thy just wrath 
Sent me a three-years' exile from thine eyes. 
I have not lived my life delightsomely : 
For I that did that violence to thy thrall, 
Had often wrought some fury on myself. 
Saving for Balan : those three kingless years 
Have past — were wormwood-bitter to me. King, 
Methought that if we sat beside the well, 
And hurPd to ground what knight soever spurred 
Against us, thou would'st take me gladlier back, 
And make, as ten-times worthier to be thine 
Than twenty Balins, Balan knight. I have said. 
Not so — not all. A man of thine to-day 
Abashed us both, and brake my boast. Thy will?'^ 
Said Arthur " Thou hast ever spoken truth ; 
Thy too fierce manhood would not let thee lie. 
Rise, my true knight. As children learn, be thou 
Wiser for falling ! walk with me, and move 
To music with thine Order and the King. 
Thy chair, a grief to all the brethren, stands 
Vacant, but thou retake it, mine again ! " 
Thereafter, when Sir Balin entered hall. 
The Lost one Found was greeted as in Heaven 
With joy that blazed itself in woodland wealth 



BALIN AND BALAN, 309 

Of leaf, and gayest garlandage of flowers, 
Along the walls and down the board ; they sat. 
And cup clash'd cup ; they drank and some one sang, 
Sweet-voiced, a song of welcome, whereupon 
Their common shout in chorus, mounting, made 
Those banners of twelve battles overhead 
Stir, as they stirrM of old, when Arthur's host 
Proclaimed him Victor, and the day was won. 

Then Balan added to their Order lived 
A wealthier life than heretofore with these 
And Balin, till their embassage returned. 

" Sir King'' they brought report "we hardly found, 
So bush'd about it is with gloom, the hall 
Of him to whom ye sent us, Pellam, once 
A Christless foe of thine as ever dash'd* 
Horse against horse ; but seeing that thy realm 
Hath prospered in the name of Christ, the King 
Took, as in rival heat, to holy things ; 
And finds himself descended from the Saint 
Arimathaean Joseph ; him who first 
Brought the great faith to Britain over seas 
He boasts his life as purer than thine own; 
Eats scarce enow to keep his pulse abeat ; 
Hath push'd aside his faithful wife, nor lets 
Or dame or damsel enter at his gates 
Lest he should be polluted. This gray King 
Showed us a shrine wherein were wonders — yea — 
Rich arks with priceless bones of martyrdom. 
Thorns of the crown and shivers of the cross. 
And therewithal (for thus he told us) brought 
By holy Joseph hither, that same spear 






310 BALIN' AND BALAN, 

Wherewith the Roman pierced the side of Christ. 
He much amazed us ; after, when we sought 
The tribute, answerM * I have quite foregone 
All matters of this world : Garlon, mine heir 
Of him demand it,' which this Garlon gave 
With much ado, railing at thine and thee. 

But when we left, in those deep woods we found 
A knight of thine spear-stricken from behind, 
Dead, whom we buried ; more than one of us 
Cried out on Garlon, but a woodman there 
Reported of some demon in the woods 
Was once a man, who driven by evil tongues 
From all his fellows, lived alone, and came 
To learn black magic, and to hate his kind 
With such a hate, that when he died, his soul 
Became a Fiend, which, as the man in life 
Was wounded by blind tongues he saw not whence, 
Strikes from behind. This woodman show'd the 

cave 
From which he sallies, and wherein he dwelt. 
We saw the hoof-print of a horse, no rnore." 

Then Arthur, *' Let who goes before me, see 
He do not fall behind me : foully slain 
And villainously ! who will hunt for me 
This demon of the woods? " Said Balan, ** I ! " 
So claimed the quest and rode away, but first, 
Embracing Balin, *'Good, my brother, hear! 
Let not thy moods prevail, when I am gone 
Who used to lay them ! hold them outer fiends. 
Who leap at thee to tear thee ; shake them aside, 
Dreams ruling when wit sleeps ! yea, but to dream 



BALIN AND BALAN. 311 

That any of these would wrong thee, wrongs thyself. 

Witness their flowery welcome. Bound are they 

To speak no evil. Truly save for fears, 

My fears for thee, so rich a fellowship 

Would make me wholly blest : thou one of them, 

Be one indeed : consider them, and all 

Their bearing in their common bond of love, 

No more of hatred than in Heaven itself, 

No more of jealousy than in Paradise." 

So Balan warnM, and went ; Balin remain'd : 
Who — for but three brief moons had glanced away 
From being knighted till he smote the thrall, 
And faded from the presence into years 
Of exile — now would strictlier set himself 
To learn what Arthur meant by courtesy, 
Manhood, and knighthood ; wherefore hover'd round 
Lancelot, but when he mark'd his high sweet smile 
In passing, and a transitory word 
Make knight or churl or child or damsel seem 
From being smiled at happier in themselves — 
Sigh'd, as a boy lame-born beneath a height. 
That glooms his valley, sighs to see the peak 
Sun-flush'd, or touch at night the northern star; 
For one from out his village lately climb'd 
And brought report of azure lands and fair. 
Far seen to left and right ; and he himself 
Hath hardly scaled with help a hundred feet 
Up from the base : so Balin marvelling oft 
How far beyond him Lancelot seemM to move, 
Groan'd, and at times would mutter, " These be gifts. 
Born with the blood, not learnable, divine, 



312 BALIN AND BALAN, 

Beyond my reach. Well had I foughten — well — 

In those fierce wars, struck hard — and had I crown'd 

With my slain self the heaps of whom I slew — 

So — better ! — But this worship of the Queen, 

That honour too wherein she holds him — this, 

This was the sunshine that hath given the man 

A growth, a name that branches o'er the rest. 

And strength against all odds, and what the King 

So prizes — overprizes — gentleness. 

Her likewise would I worship an I might. 

I never can be close with her, as he 

That brought her hither. Shall I pray the King 

To let me bear some token of his Queen 

Whereon to gaze, remembering her — forget 

My heats and violences? live afresh? 

What, if the Queen disdained to grant it ! nay 

Being so stately-gentle, would she make 

My darkness blackness ? and with how sweet grace 

She greeted my return! Bold will I be — 

Some goodly cognizance of Guinevere, 

In lieu of this rough beast upon my shield, 

Langued gules, and tooth'd with grinning savagery." 

And Arthur, when Sir Balin sought him, said 
*^ What wilt thou bear ? " Balin was bold, and ask'd 
To bear her own crown-royal upon shield. 
Whereat she smiled and turn'd her to the King, 
Who answer'd ** Thou shalt put the crown to use. 
The crown is but the shadow of the King, 
And this a shadow's shadow, let him have it, 
So this will help him of his violences ! " 
" No shadow " said Sir Balin " O my Queen, 



BALIN AND BALAN, 313 

But light to me ! no shadow, O my King, 
But golden earnest of a gentler life I " 

So Balin bare the crown, and all the knights 
Approved him, and the Queen, and all the world 
Made music, and he felt his being move 
In music with his Order, and the King. 

The nightingale, full-toned in middle May, 
Hath ever and anon a note so thin 
It seems another voice in other groves ; 
Thus, after some quick burst of sudden wrath, 
The music in him seemM to change, and grow 
Faint and far-off. 

And once he saw the thrall 
His passion half had gauntleted to death. 
That causer of his banishment and shame, 
Smile at him, as he deemM, presumptuously: 
His arm half rose to strike again, but fell : 
The memory of that cognizance on shield 
Weighted it down, but in himself he moan'd : 

'* Too high this mount of Camelot for me : 
These high-set courtesies are not for me. 
Shall I not rather prove the worse for these ? 
Fierier and stormier from restraining, break 
Into some madness ev^n before the Queen?" 

Thus, as a hearth lit in a mountain home, 
And glancing on the window, when the gloom 
Of twilight deepens round it, seems a flame 
That rages in the woodland far below. 
So when his moods were darkenM, court and King 
And all the kindly warmth of Arthur's hall 
Shadow'd an angry distance : yet he strove 



314 BALIN AND BALAN. 

To learn the graces of their Table, fought 

Hard with himself, and seemM at length in peace. 

Then chanced, one morning, that Sir Balin sat 
Close-bower'd in that garden nigh the hall. 
A walk of roses ran from door to door ; 
A walk of lilies crost it to the bower : 
And down that range of roses the great Queen 
Came with slow steps, the morning on her face ; 
And all in shadow from the counter door 
Sir Lancelot as to meet her, then at once, 
As if he saw not, glanced aside, and paced 
The long white walk of lilies toward the bower. 
Followed the Queen ; Sir Balin heard her "Prince, 
Art thou so little loyal to thy Queen, 
As pass without good morrow to thy Queen ? " 
To whom Sir Lancelot with his eyes on earth, 
" Fain would I still be loyal to the Queen." 
" Yea so '' she said " but so to pass me by — 
So loyal scarce is loyal to thyself. 
Whom all men rate the king of courtesy. 
Let be : ye stand, fair lord, as in a dream." 

Then Lancelot with his hand among the flowers 
"Yea — for a dream. Last night methought I saw 
That maiden Saint who stands with lily in hand 
In yonder shrine. All round her prest the dark, 
And all the light upon her silver face 
Flow'd from the spiritual lily that she held. 
Lo ! these her emblems drew mine eyes — away : 
For see, how perfect-pure ! As light a flush 
As hardly tints the blossom of the quince 
Would mar their charm of stainless maidenhood." 






BALIN AND BALAN. 315 

*' Sweeter to me " she said " this garden rose 
Deep-hued and many-folded ! sweeter still 
The wild-wood hyacinth and the bloom of May. 
Prince, we have ridd'n before among the flowers 
In those fair days — not all as cool as these, 
Tho' season-earlier. Art thou sad ? or sick ? 
Our noble King will send thee his own leech — 
Sick ? or for any matter anger'd at me ? " 

Then Lancelot lifted his large eyes ; they dwelt 
Deep-tranced on hers, and could not fall : her hue 
Changed at his gaze : so turning side by side 
They past, and Balin started from his bower. 

" Queen? subject? but I see not what I see. 
Damsel and lover? hear not what I hear. 
My father hath begotten me in his wrath. 
I suffer from the things before me, know. 
Learn nothing ; am not worthy to be knight : 
A churl, a clown ! " and in him gloom on gloom 
Deepened : he sharply caught his lance and shield, 
Nor stay'd to crave permission of the king, 
But, mad for strange adventure, dashM away. 

He took the selfsame track as Balan, saw 
The fountain where they sat together, sigh'd 
" Was I not better there with him ? '' and rode 
The skyless woods, but under open blue 
Came on the hoarhead woodman at a bough 
Wearily hewing, '* Churl, thine axe ! '^ he cried, 
descended, and disjointed it at a blow : 
To whom the woodman utterM wonderingly 
*^ Lord, thou couldst lay the Devil of these woods 
If arm of flesh could lav him." Balin cried 



316 BALIN AND BALAN, 

" Him, or the viler devil who plays his part. 

To lay that devil would lay the Devil in me." 

" Nay" said the churl, *' our devil is a truth, 

I saw the flash of him but yestereven. 

And some do say that our Sir Garlon too 

Hath learn'd black magic, and to ride unseen. 

Look to the cave." But Balin answered him 

"Old fabler, these be fancies of the churl, 

Look to thy woodcraft," and so leaving him. 

Now with slack rein and careless of himself, 

Now with dug spur and raving at himself, 

Now with droopt brow down the long glades he 

rode ; 
So mark'd not on his right a cavern-chasm 
Yawn over darkness, where, nor far within 
The whole day died, but, dying, gleamM on rocks 
Roof-pendent, sharp ; and others from the floor, 
Tusklike, arising, made that mouth of night 
Whereout the Demon issued up from Hell. 
He mark'd not this, but blind and deaf to all 
Save that chained rage, which ever yelpt within, 
Past eastward from the falling sun. At once 
He felt the hollow-beaten mosses thud 
And tremble, and then the shadow of a spear, 
Shot from behind him, ran along the ground. 
Sideways he started from the path, and saw, 
With pointed lance as if to pierce, a shape, 
A light of armour by him flash, and pass 
And vanish in the woods ; and followed this, 
But all so blind in rage that unawares 
He burst his lance against a forest bough, 



BALIN AND BALAN, 317 

Dishorsed himself, and rose again, and fled 

Far, till the castle of a King, the hall 

Of Pellam, lichen-bearded, grayly draped 

With streaming grass, appeared, low-built but 

strong ; 
The ruinous donjon as a knoll of moss, 
The battlement overtopt with ivytods, 
A home of bats, in every tower an owl. 

Then spake the men of Pellam crying '' Lord, 
Why wear ye this crown-royal upon shield ? " 
Said Balin " For the fairest and the best 
Of ladies living gave me this to bear." 
So stalPd his horse, and strode across the court. 
But found the greetings both of knight and King 
Faint in the low dark hall of banquet : leaves 
Laid their green faces flat against the panes. 
Sprays grated, and the canker'd boughs without 
Whined in the wood ; for all was hush'd within, 
Till when at feast Sir Garlon likewise ask'd 
'' Why wear ye that crown-royal ? " Balin said 
"The Queen we worship, Lancelot, I, and all. 
As fairest, best and purest, granted me 
To bear it ! " Such a sound (for Arthur's knights 
Were hated strangers in the hall) as makes 
The white swan-mother, sitting, when she hears 
A strange knee rustle thro' her secret reeds, 
Made Garlon, hissing ; then he sourly smiled. 
" Fairest I grant her : I have seen ; but best. 
Best, purest? thou from Arthur's hall, and yet 
So simple ! hast thou eyes, or if, are these 
So far besotted that they fail to see 



318 BALIN AND BALAN, 

This fair wife-worship cloaks a secret shame ? 
Truly, ye men of Arthur be but babes." 

A goblet on the board by Balin, boss'd 
With holy Joseph's legend, on his right 
Stood, all of massiest bronze : one side had sea 
And ship and sail and angels blowing on it : 
And one was rough with pole and scaffoldage 
Of that low church he built at Glastonbury. 
This Balin graspt, but while in act to hurl, 
Thro' memory of that token on the shield 
Relaxed his hold: *' I will be gentle" he thought 
"And passing gentle" caught his hand away, 
Then fiercely to Sir Garlon ** eyes have I 
That saw to-day the shadow of a spear, 
Shot from behind me, run along the ground ; 
Eyes too that long have watch'd how Lancelot draws 
From homage to the best and purest, might, 
Name, manhood, and a grace, but scantly thine. 
Who, sitting in thine own hall, canst endure 
To mouth so huge a foulness — to thy guest, 
Me, me of Arthur's Table. Felon talk ! 
Let be ! no more ! " 

But not the less by night 
The scorn of Garlon, poisoning all his rest, 
Stung him in dreams. At length, and dim thro' 

leaves 
Blinkt the white morn, sprays grated, and old boughs 
Whined in the wood. He rose, descended, met 
The scorner in the castle court, and fain, 
For hate and loathing, would have past him by ; 
But when Sir Garlon utter'd mocking-wise ; 



BALIN AND BALAN. 319 

" What, wear ye still that same crown-scandalous ? " 

His countenance blacken'd, and his forehead veins 

Bloated, and branched ; and tearing out of sheath 

The brand, Sir Balin with a fiery * ' Ha ! 

So thou be shadow, here I make thee ghost," 

Hard upon helm smote him, and the blade flew 

Splintering in six, and cHnkt upon the stones. 

Then Garlon, reeling slowly backward, fell. 

And Balin by the banneret of his helm 

Dcagg'd him, and struck, but from the castle a cry 

Sounded across the court, and — men-at-arms, 

A score with pointed lances, making at him — 

He dash'd the pummel at the foremost face, 

Beneath a low door dipt, and made his feet 

Wings thro' a glimmering gallery, till he mark'd 

The portal of King Pellam's chapel wide 

And inward to the wall ; he stept behind ; 

Thence in a moment heard them pass like wolves 

Howling ; but while he stared about the shrine. 

In which he scarce could spy the Christ for Saints, 

Beheld before a golden altar lie 

The longest lance his eyes had ever seen, 

Point-painted red ; and seizing thereupon 

PushM thro' an open casement down, lean'd on it, 

Leapt in a semicircle, and lit on earth ; 

Then hand at ear, and barkening from what side 

The blindfold rummage buried in the walls 

Might echo, ran the counter path, and found 

His charger, mounted on him and away. 

An arrow whizz'd to the right, one to the left, 

One overhead ; and Pellam's feeble cry 



320 BALIN AND BALAN. 

" Stay, stay him ! he defileth heavenly things 
With earthly uses '' — made him quickly dive 
Beneath the boughs, and race thro' many a mile 
Of dense and open, till his goodly horse, 
Arising wearily at a fallen oak, 
Stumbled headlong, and cast him face to ground. 

Half-wroth he had not ended, but all glad, 
Knightlike, to find his charger yet unlamed. 
Sir Balin drew the shield from off his neck, 
Stared at the priceless cognizance, and thought 
" I have shamed thee so that now thou shamest me, 
Thee will I bear no more," high on a branch 
Hung it, and turn'd aside into the woods, 
And there in gloom cast himself all along, 
Moaning " My violences, my violences ! " 

But now the wholesome music of the wood 
Was dumb'd by one from out the hall of Mark, 
A damsel-errant, warbling, as she rode 
The woodland alleys, Vivien, with her Squire. 

" The fire of Heaven has kilPd the barren cold, 
And kindled all the plain and all the wold. 
The new leaf ever pushes off the old. 
The fire of Heaven is not the flame of Hell. 

Old priest, who mumble worship in your quire — 
Old monk and nun, ye scorn the world's desire, 
Yet in your frosty cells ye feel the fire ! 
Th^ fire of Heaven is not the flame of Hell. 

The fire of Heaven is on the dusty ways. 
The wayside blossoms open to the blaze. 
The whole wood-world is one full peal of praise 
The fire of Heaven is not the flame of Hell. 



BALIN AND BALAN. 321 

The fire of Heaven is lord of all things good, 
And starve not thou this fire within thy blood, 
But follow Vivien thro' the fiery flood ! 
The fire of Heaven is not the flame of Hell ! " 

Then turning to her Squire " This fire of Heaven, 
This old sun-worship, boy, will rise again. 
And beat the cross to earth, and break the King 
And all his Table." 

Then they reached a glade, 
Where under one long lane of cloudless air 
Before another wood, the royal crown 
Sparkled, and swaying upon a restless elm 
Drew the vague glance of Vivien, and her Squire ; 
Amazed were these ; " Lo there " she cried — "a 

crown — 
Borne by some high lord-prince of Arthur's hall, 
And there a horse ! the rider? where is he? 
See, yonder lies one dead within the wood. 
Not dead ; he stirs ! — but sleeping. I will speak. 
Hail, royal knight, we break on thy sweet rest, 
Not, doubtless, all unearned by noble deeds. 
But bounden art thou, if from Arthur's hall, 
To help the weak. Behold, I fly from shame, 
A lustful King, who sought to win my love 
Thro' evil ways : the knight, with whom I rode, 
Hath sufler'd misadventure, and my squire 
Hath in him small defence ; but thou. Sir Prince, 
Wilt surely guide me to the warrior King, 
Arthur the blameless, pure as any maid, 
To get me shelter for my maidenhood. 
I charge thee by that crown upon thy shield, 



322 BALIN AND BALAN. 

And by the great Queen's name, arise and hence." 
And Balin rose, " Thither no more ! nor Prince 
Nor knight am I, but one that hath defamed 
The cognizance she gave me : here I dwell 
Savage among the savage woods, here die — 
Die: let the wolves' black maws ensepulchre 
Their brother beast, whose anger was his lord. 

me, that such a name as Guinevere's, 
Which our high Lancelot hath so lifted up, 
And been thereby upHfted, should thro' me, 
My violence, and my villainy, come to shame." 

Thereat she suddenly laugh'd and shrill, anon 
Sigh'd all as suddenly. Said Balin to her 
*' Is this thy courtesy — to mock me, ha? 
Hence, for I will not with thee." Again she sigh'd 
*• Pardon, sweet lord ! we maidens often laugh 
When sick at heart, when rather we should weep. 

1 knew thee wrong'd. I brake upon thy rest, 
And now full loth am I to break thy dream. 
But thou art man, and canst abide a truth, 
Tho' bitter. Hither, boy — and mark me well 
Dost thou remember at Caerleon once — 

A year ago — nay, then I love thee not — 
Ay, thou rememberest well — one summer dawn — 
By the great tower — Caerleon upon Usk — 
Nay, truly we were hidden : this fair lord. 
The flower of all their vestal knighthood, knelt 
In amorous homage — knelt — what else ? — O ay 
Knelt, and drew down from out his night-black hair 
And mumbled that white hand whose ring'd caress 
Had wander'd from her own King's golden head, 



I 



BALIN AND BALAJSf, 323 

And lost itself in darkness, till she cried — 

I thought the great tower would crash down on 

both — 
" Rise, my sweet King, and kiss me on the lips. 
Thou art my King." This lad, whose lightest word 
Is mere white truth in simple nakedness, 
Saw them embrace : he reddens, cannot speak, 
So bashful, he ! but all the maiden Saints, 
The deathless mother-maidenhood of Heaven 
Cry out upon her. Up then, ride with me ! 
Talk not of shame ! thou canst not, an thou would'st, 
Do these more shame than these have done them- 
selves." 

She lied with ease ; but horror-stricken he, 
Remembering that dark bower at Camelot, 
Breathed in a dismal whisper " It is truth." 

Sunnily she smiled '' And even in this lone wood 
Sweet lord, ye do right well to whisper this. 
Fools prate, and perish traitors. Woods have 

tongues, 
As walls have ears : but thou shalt go with me, 
And we will speak at first exceeding low. 
Meet is it the good King be not deceived. 
See now, I set thee high on vantage ground, 
From whence to watch the time, and eagle-like 
Stoop at thy will on Lancelot and the Queen." 

She ceased ; his evil spirit upon him leapt, 
He ground his teeth together, sprang with a yell. 
Tore from the branch, and cast on earth, the shield, 
Drove his maiPd heel athwart the royal crown, 
Stampt all into defacement, hurPd it from him 



324 BALIN AND BALAN. 

Among the forest weeds, and cursed the tale, 
The told-of, and the teller. 

That weird yell, 
Unearthlier than all shriek of bird or beast, 
Thriird thro' the woods ; and Balan lurking there 
(His quest was unaccomplished) heard and thought 
*' The scream of that Wood-devil I came to quell ! " 
Then nearing " Lo ! he hath slain some brother- 
knight, 
And tramples on the goodly shield to show 
His loathing of our Order and the Queen. 
My quest, meseems, is here. Or devil or man 
Guard thou thine head." Sir Balin spake not word, 
But snatched a sudden buckler from the Squire, 
And vaulted on his horse, and so they crashed 
In onset, and King Pellam's holy spear, 
Reputed to be red with sinless blood, 
Redden'd at once with sinful, for the point 
Across the maiden shield of Balan prick'd 
The hauberk to the flesh ; and Balin's horse 
Was wearied to the death, and, when they clash'd, 
Rolling back upon Balin, crushed the man 
Inward, and either fell, and swoonM away. 

Then to her Squire mutter'd the damsel " Fools ! 
This fellow hath wrought some foulness with his 

Queen : 
Else never had he borne her crown, nor raved 
And thus foam'd over at a rival name : 
But thou, Sir Chick, that scarce hast broken shell, 
Art yet half-yolk, not even come to down — 
Who never sawest Caerleon upon Usk — 



BALIN AND BALAN, 325 

And yet hast often pleaded for my love — 

See what I see, be thou where I have been, 

Or else Sir Chick — dismount and loose their 

casques 
I fain would know what manner of men they be." 
And when the Squire had loosed them, "Goodly! 

— look! 
They might have cropt the myriad flower of May, 
And butt each other here, like brainless bulls, 
Dead for one heifer ! " 

Then the gentle Squire 
" I hold them happy, so they died for love : 
And, Vivien, tho^ ye beat me like your dog, 
I too could die, as now I live, for thee." 

" Live on, Sir Boy," she cried. "I better prize 
The living dog than the dead lion : away ! 
I cannot brook to gaze upon the dead." 
Then leapt her palfrey o'er the fallen oak, 
And bounding forward " Leave them to the wolves." 

But when their foreheads felt the cooling air, 
Balin first woke, and seeing that true face, 
Familiar up from cradle- time, so wan, 
CrawPd slowly with low moans to where he lay. 
And on his dying brother cast himself 
Dying ; and he lifted faint eyes ; he felt 
One near him ; all at once they found the world, 
Staring wild-wide ; then with a childlike wail, 
And drawing down the dim disastrous brow 
That o'er him hung, he kiss'd it, moan'd and spake ; 

" O Balin, Balin, I that fain had died 
To save thy life, have brought thee to thy death. 



326 BALIN AND BALAN, 

Why had ye not the shield I knew ? and why 
Trampled ye thus on that which bare the Crown ? " 

Then Balin told him brokenly, and in gasps, 
All that had chanced, and Balan moan'd again. 

" Brother, I dwelt a day in Pellam's hall : 
This Garlon mockM me, but I heeded not. 
And one said " Eat in peace ! a liar is he, 
And hates thee for the tribute ! " this good knight 
Told me, that twice a wanton damsel came. 
And sought for Garlon at the castle-gates, 
Whom Pellam drove away with holy heat. 
I well believe this damsel, and the one 
Who stood beside thee even now, the same. 
" She dwells among the woods " he said " and 

meets 
And dallies with him in the Mouth of Hell." 
Foul are their lives ; foul are their lips ; they 

lied. 
Pure as our own true Mother is our Queen." 

" O brother " answer'd Balin " Woe is me ! 
My madness all thy life has been thy doom. 
Thy curse, and darkened all thy day ; and now 
The night has come. I scarce can see thee now. 
Goodnight ! for we shall never bid again 
Goodmorrow — Dark my doom was here, and dark 
It will be there. I see thee now no more. 
I would not mine again should darken thine, 
Goodnight, true brother." 

Balan answer'd low 
" Goodnight, true brother here ! goodmorrow there ! 
We two were born together, and we die 



PROLOGUE. 327 

Together by one doom : " and while he spoke 
Closed his death-drowsing eyes, and slept the sleep 
With Balin, either lockM in cither's arm. 



PROLOGUE TO GENERAL HAMLEY. 

Our birches yellowing and from each 

The light leaf falling fast, 
While squirrels from our fiery beech 

Were bearing off the mast, 
You came, and look'd and loved the view 

Long-known and loved by me. 
Green Sussex fading into blue 

With one gray glimpse of sea ; 
And, gazing from this height alone, 

We spoke of what had been 
Most marvellous in the wars your own 

Crimean eyes had seen ; 
And now — like old-world inns that take 

Some warrior for a sign 
That therewithin a guest may make 

True cheer with honest wine — 
Because you heard the lines I read 

Nor utter'd word of blame, 
I dare without your leave to head 

These rhymings with your name, 
Who know you but as one of those 

I fain would meet again, 
Yet know you, as your England knows 



328 EPILOGUE, 

That you and all you men 

Were soldiers to her heart's desire, 

When, in the vanish'd year, 
You saw the league-long rampart-fire 

Flare from Tel-el-Kebir 
Thro' darkness, and the foe was driven, 

And Wolseley overthrew 
Arabi, and the stars in heaven 

Paled, and the glory grew. 



EPILOGUE. 



Irene. 

Not this way will you set your name 
A star among the stars. 

Poet. 
What way? 

Irene. 

You praise when you should blame 
The barbarism of wars. 
A juster epoch has begun. 

Poet. 

Yet tho' this cheek be gray, 
And that bright hair the modern sun, 
Those eyes the blue to-day, 



EPILOGUE. 329 

You wrong me, passionate little friend. 

I would that wars should cease, 
I would the globe from end to end 

Might sow and reap in peace, 
And some new Spirit o'erbear the old, 

Or Trade re-frain the Powers 
From war with kindly links of gold, 

Or Love with wreaths of flowers. 
Slav, Teuton, Kelt, I count them all 

My friends and brother souls. 
With all the peoples, great and small. 

That wheel between the poles. 
But since, our mortal shadow. 111 

To waste this earth began — 
Perchance from some abuse of Will 

In worlds before the man 
Involving ours — he needs must fight 

To make true peace his own, 
He needs must combat might with might, 

Or Might would rule alone ; 
And who loves War for War's own sake 

Is fool, or crazed, or worse ; 
But let the patriot-soldier take 

His meed of fame in verse ; 
Nay — tho' that realm were in the wrong 

For which her warriors bleed. 
It still were right to crown with song 

The warrior's noble deed — 
A crown the Singer hopes may last, 

For so the deed endures ; 
But Song will vanish in the Vast ; 



330 EPILOGUE. 

And that large phrase of yours 
** A Star among the stars," my dear, 

Is girlish talk at best ; 
For dare we dally with the sphere 

As he did half in jest, 
Old Horace ? "I will strike " said he 

" The stars with head sublime," 
But scarce could see, as now we see, 

The man in Space and Time, 
So drew perchance a happier lot 

Than ours, who rhyme to-day. 
The fires that arch this dusky dot — 

Yon myriad-worlded way — 
The vast sun-clusters' gathered blaze. 

World-isles in lonely skies. 
Whole heavens within themselves, amaze 

Our brief humanities ; 
And so does Earth ; for Homer's fame, 

Tho' carved in harder stone — 
The falling drop will make his name 

As mortal as my own. 



Irene. 

No! 

Poet. 

Let it live then — ay, till when ? 
Earth passes, all is lost 
In what they prophesy, our wise men, 
Sun-flame or sunless frost. 



THE DEAD PROPHET. 331 

And deed and song alike are swept 

Away, and all in vain 
As far as man can see, except 

The man himself remain ; 
And tho', in this lean age forlorn, 

Too many a voice may cry 
That man can have no after-morn, 

Not yet of these am I. 
The man remains, and whatsoe'er 

He wrought of good or brave 
Will mould him thro' the cycle-year 

That dawns behind the grave. 



And here the Singer for his Art 

Not all in vain may plead 
" The song that nerves a nation's heart, 

Is in itself a deed." 



THE DEAD PROPHET. 
1 82-. 

I. 

Dead! 

And the Muses cried with a stormy cry 
" Send them no more, for evermore. 
Let the people die." 



332 THE DEAD PROPHET. 

II. 
Dead! 

" Is it he then brought so low ? " 
And a careless people flock'd from the fields 
With a purse to pay for the show. 

III. 

Dead, who had served his time, 

Was one of the people\s kings, 
Had laboured in lifting them out of slime, 

And showing them, souls have wings ! 

IV. 

Dumb on the winter heath he lay. 

His friends had stript him bare, 
And roird his nakedness everyway 

That all the crowd might stare. 



V. 



# 



A storm-worn signpost not to be read, 
And a tree with a mouldered nest 

On its barkless bones, stood stark by the dead ; 
And behind him, low in the West, 



VI. 

With shifting ladders of shadow and light, 
And blurr'd in colour and form, 

The sun hung over the gates of Night, 
And glared at a coming storm. 



THE DEAD PROPHET, 333 



VII. 



Then glided a vulturous Beldam forth, 

That on dumb death had thriven ; 
They call'd her '' Reverence '' here upon earth, 

And " The Curse of the Prophet '' in Heaven. 



VIII. 



She knelt — " We worship him'' — all but wept' 

" So great so noble was he ! " 
She clear'd her sight, she arose, she swept 

The dust of earth from her knee. 



IX. 



" Great ! for he spoke and the people heard, 
And his eloquence caught like a flame 

From zone to zone of the world, till his Word 
Had won him a noble name. 



X. 

Noble ! he sung, and the sweet sound ran 

Thro' palace and cottage door, 
For he touch'd on the whole sad planet of man. 

The kings and the rich and the poor ; 



XI. 

And he sung not alone of an old sun set, 
But a sun coming up in his youth ! 

Great and noble — O yes — but yet — 
For man is a lover of Truth, 



334 THE DEAD PROPHET, 

XII. 

And bound to follow, wherever she go 

Stark-naked, and up or down. 
Thro' her high hill-passes of stainless snow, 

Or the foulest sewer of the town — 

XIII. 

Noble and great — O ay — ^^but then, 

Tho' a prophet should have his due, 
Was he noblier-fashion'd than other men? 

Shall we see to it, I and you? 

XIV. 

For since he would sit on a Prophet's seat, 

As a lord of the Human soul, 
We needs must scan him from head to feet 

Were it but for a wart or a mole? " 

XV. 

His wife and his child stood by him in tears, 

But she — she push'd them aside. 
" Tho' a name may last for a thousand years. 

Yet a truth is a truth," she cried. 

XVI. 

And she that had haunted his pathway still, 

Had often truckled and cower'd 
When he rose in his wrath, and had yielded her 
will 

To the master, as overpower'd, 



THE DEAD PROPHET, 335 



XVII. 



She tumbled his helpless corpse about. 

" Small blemish upon the skin ! 
But I think we know what is fair without 

Is often as foul within." 



XVIII. 



She crouchM, she tore him part from part, 

And out of his body she drew 
The red " Blood-eagle " ^ of liver and heart ; 

She held them up to the view ; 



XIX. 



She gabbled, as she groped in the dead, 
And all the people were pleased ; 

" See, what a little heart," she said, 
" And the liver is half-diseased ! " 



XX. 

She tore the Prophet after death, 
And the people paid her well. 

Lightnings flickered along the heath 
One shriekM " The fires of Hell ! 



tt 



1 Old Viking term for lungs, liver, etc., when torn by the conqueror 
out of the body of the conquered. 



336 EPITAPHS. 



EPITAPH ON LORD STRATFORD DE 
REDCLIFFE. 

IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

Thou third great Canning, stand among our best 
And noblest, now thy long day's work hath 
ceased, 

Here silent in our Minster of the West 

Who wert the voice of England in the East. 



EPITAPH ON GENERAL GORDON 

FOR A CENOTAPH. 

Warrior of God, man's friend, not laid below, 
But somewhere dead far in the waste Soudan, 

Thou livest in all hearts, for all men know 
This earth has borne no simpler, nobler man. 



TO THE DUKE OF ARGYLL, 337 



EPITAPH ON CAXTON. 

IN ST. MARGARET'S, WESTMINSTER. 

J^iat Lux (his motto). 

Thy prayer was <' Light — more Light — while 

Time shall last ! " 
Thou sawest a glory growing on the night, 
But not the shadows which that light would cast, 
Till shadows vanish in the Light of Light. 



TO THE DUKE OF ARGYLL. 

O Patriot Statesman, be thou wise to know 
The limits of resistance, and the bounds 
Determining concession ; still be bold 
Not only to slight praise but suffer scorn ; 
And be thy heart a fortress to maintain 
The day against the moment, and the year 
Against the day ; thy voice, a music heard 
Thro' all the yells and counter-yells of feud 
And faction, and thy will, a power to make 
This ever-changing world of circumstance. 
In changing, chime with never-changing Law. 



338 TO H.R.H, PRINCESS BEATRICE, 



TO H.R.H. PRINCESS BEATRICE. 

Two Suns of Love make day of human life, 
Which else with all its pains, and griefs, and deaths, 
Were utter darkness — one, the Sun of dawn 
That brightens thro' the Mother's tender eyes, 
And warms the child's awakening world — and one 
The later-rising Sun of spousal Love, 
Which from her household orbit draws the chfld 
To move in other spheres. The Mother weeps 
At that white funeral of the single life, 
Her maiden daughter's marriage ; and her tears 
Are half of pleasure, half of pain — the child 
Is happy — ev'n in leaving her ! but Thou, 
True daughter, whose all-faithful, filial eyes 
Have seen the loneliness of earthly thrones, 
Wilt neither quit the widow'd Crown, nor let 
This later light of Love have risen in vain. 
But moving thro' the Mother's home, between 
The two that love thee, lead a summer life, 
Sway'd by each Love, and swaying to each Love, 
Like some conjectured planet in mid heaven 
Between two Suns, and drawing down from both 
The light and genial warmth of double day. 



^OLD POETS FOSTER D;' ETC. 339 



" OLD POETS FOSTER'D UNDER FRIEND- 
LIER SKIES." 

Old poets foster'd under friendlier skies, 
Old Virgil who would write ten lines, they say, 
At dawn, and lavish all the golden day 

To make them wealthier in his readers' eyes ; 

And you, old popular Horace, you the wise 
Adviser of the nine-years-ponder'd lay, 
And you, that wear a wreath of sweeter bay, 

Catullus, whose dead songster never dies ; 

If, glancing downward on the kindly sphere 

That once had rolPd you round and round the Sun, 
You see your Art still shrined in human shelves, 

You should be jubilant that you flourished here 
Before the Love of Letters, overdone. 

Had swampt the sacred poets with themselves. 



340 VASTNESS. 



VASTNESS. 



Many a hearth upon our dark globe sighs after 

many a vanish 'd face, 
Many a planet by many a sun may roll with the dust 

of a vanished race. 

II. 

Raving politics, never at rest — as this poor earth's 

pale history runs, — 
What is it all but a trouble of ants in the gleam of a 

million million of suns? 

III. 

Lies upon this side, lies upon that side, truthless 

violence mourn'd by the Wise, 
Thousands of voices drowning his own in a popular 

torrent of lies upon lies ; 

IV. 

Stately purposes, valour in battle, glorious annals of 

army and fleet. 
Death for the right cause, death for the wrong cause, 

trumpets of victory, groans of defeat ; 



VASTNESS 341 



Innocence seethed in her mother's milk, and Charity 

setting the martyr aflame ; 
Thraldom who walks with the banner of Freedom, 

and recks not to ruin a realm in her name. 

VI. 

Faith at her zenith, or all but lost in the gloom of 

doubts that darken the schools ; 
Craft with a bunch of all-heal in her hand, followed 

up by her vassal legion of fools ; 

VII. 

Pain, that has crawl'd from the corpse of Pleasure, 
a worm which writhes all day, and at night 

Stirs up again in the heart of the sleeper, and stings 
him back to the purse of the light ; 

VIII. 

Wealth with his wines and his wedded harlots ; 

Flattery gilding the rift of a throne ; 
Opulent Avarice, lean as Poverty ; honest Poverty, 

bare to the bone ; 

IX. 

Love for the maiden crown'd with marriage, no re- 
grets for aught that has been. 

Household happiness, gracious children, debtless 
competence, golden mean ; 



% 



342 VASTNESS. 



National hatreds of whole generations, and pigmy 

spites of the village spire ; 
Vows that will last to the last death-ruckle, and vows 

that are snapt in a moment of fire ; 

XI. 

He that has lived for the lust of the minute, and 
died in the doing it, flesh without mind ; 

He that has naiPd all flesh to the Cross, till Self 
died out in the love of his kind ; 

XII. 

Spring and Summer and Autumn and Winter, and 
all these old revolutions of earth ; 

All new-old revolutions of Empire — change of the 
tide — what is all of it worth ? 

XIII. 

What the philosophies, all the sciences, poesy, vary- 
ing voices of prayer ? 

All that is noblest, all that is basest, all that is 
filthy with all that is fair? 

XIV. 

What is it all, if we all of us end but in being our 

own corpse-coffins at last, 
Swallow'd in Vastness, lost in Silence, drownVl ' 

the deeps of a meaningless Past? 



HELEN'S TOWER. 343 



XV. 



What but a murmur of gnats in the gloom, or a mo- 
ment's aneer of bees in their hive? — 



'i5' 



Peace, let it be ! for I loved him, and love him for 
ever : the dead are not dead but alive. 



HELEN'S TOWER.i 

Helen's Tov^er, here I stand, 
Dominant over sea and land 
Son's love built me, and I hold 
Mother's love engrav'n in gold. 
Love is in and out of time, 
I am mortal stone and lime. 
Would my granite girth were strong 
As either love, to last as long! 
I should wear my crown entire 
To and thro' the Doomsday fire, 
And be found of angel eyes 
In earth's recurring Paradise. 

^ Written at the request of my friend, Lord Dufferin. 



344 " CARMEN SMCULARE:' 



•< CARMEN S^CULARE." 

LORD TENNYSON'S JUBILEE ODE. 
I. 

Fifty times the rose has flower'd and faded, 

Fifty times the golden harvest fallen, 

Since our Queen assumed the globe, the sceptre. 



II. 

She, beloved for a kindliness 
Rare in fable or history, 
Queen, and Empress of India, 
CrownM so long with a diadem 
Never worn by a worthier. 
Now with prosperous auguries 
Comes at last to the bounteous 
Crowning year of her Jubilee. 



III. 

Nothing of the lawless of the Despot, 
Nothing of the vulgar or vainglorious. 
All is gracious, gentle, great, and Queenly. 



''CARMEN SMCULARE:' 345 



IV. 



You then loyally, all of you, 
Deck your houses, illuminate 
All your towns for a festival, 
And in each let a multitude 
Loyal, each to the heart of it 
One full voice of allegiance, 
Hail the great Ceremonial 
Of this year of her Jubilee. 



Queen, as true to womanhood as Queenhood, 
Glorying in the glories of her people. 
Sorrowing with the sorrows of the lowest ! 

VI. 

You, that wanton in affluence, 
Spare not now to be bountiful, 
Call your poor to regale with you. 
Make their neighborhood healthfuller. 
Give your gold to the Hospital, 
Let the weary be comforted, 
Let the needy be banqueted, 
Let the maim'd in his heart rejoice 
At this year of her Jubilee. 

VII. 

Henry's fifty years are all in shadow. 
Gray with distance Edward's fifty summers, 
Ev'n her Grandsire's fifty half forgotten. 



346 ''CARMEN SMCULAREr 

VIII. 

You, the Patriot Architect, 
Shape a stately memorial, 
Make it regally gorgeous, 
Some Imperial Institute, 
Rich in symbol, in ornament, 
Which may speak to the centuries, 
All the centuries after us. 
Of this year of her Jubilee. 



IX. 

Fifty years of ever-broadening Commerce ! 
Fifty years of ever-brightening Science! 
Fifty years of ever-widening Empire ! 



X. 

You, the Mighty, the Fortunate, 
You, the Lord-territorial, 
You, the Lord-manufacturer, 
You, the hardy, laborious. 
Patient children of Albion, 
You, Canadian, Indian, 
Australasian, African, 
All your hearts be in harmony 
All your voices in unison. 
Singing ** Hail to the glorious 
Golden year of her Jubilee ! " 



" CARMEN SMCULAREr 347 



XI. 



Are there thunders moaning in the distance? 
Are there spectres moving in the darkness? 
Trust the Lord of Light to guide her people 
Till the thunders pass, the spectres vanish, 
And the Light is Victor, and the darkness 
Dawns into the Jubilee of the Ages. 



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